314B 


WOT.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  M* 


THE 
PEACOCK    FEATHER 


A  ROMANCE 


BY 


LESLIE    MOORE 


AUTHOR    OF    "AUNT    OLIVE    IN     BOHEMIA"     AND    "THE     NOTCH     IN 
THE   STICK  " 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 

Ube  fmfcfeerbocfeer  press 

1914 


COPYRIGHT,  1914 

BY 
ALSTON   RIVERS,  LTD. 

Fourth   Printing 


•*"*',' 

Ube  ttnfcfcerbocher  press,  flew 


Go 

MRS.  G.  HERBERT  THRING 
WITH  THE  AUTHOR'S  LOVE 


AND   GRATITUDE 


September  jo,  1913 


2131412 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PROLOGUE     I 

CHAPTER 

I.  THE   PIPER   ......  8 

II.  THE   FIRST-BORN   .  .  .  .  .21 

III.  THE   DESERTED   COTTAGE          ...         26 

IV.  PETER   TAKES   A    RESIDENCE    ...         35 
V.  THE   SOUL  OF   A   WOMAN  ...         44 

VI.  AN   OLD   GENERAL              ....  52 

VII.  A   WONDERFUL   OFFER     ....  69 

VIII.  CHATEAUX   EN   ESPAGNE             ...  79 

IX.  A   REQUEST               .....  88 

X.  THE  LADY  ANNE  .....  94 

XI.  A  CONCERT — AND  AFTER          .             .  1 03 

XII.      A  DISCLOSURE 114 

XIII.  A   MOONLIGHT   PIPING     ....  127 

XIV.  LE   BEAU   MONDE 131 

XV.  CONFIDENCES           .             .             .             .             .143 


vi  Contents 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVI.  LETTERS    ......  154 

XVII.  A   THUNDERSTORM       .             .             .            .  171 

XVIII.  THE    EVERLASTING   WHY       .  .  .183 

XIX.  PIPER   AND   AUTHOR   ....  193 

XX.  FAREWELL           .....  2O5 

XXI.  A  WOUNDED   SKYLARK          .             .             .  2O8 

XXII.  CANDLES    AND    MASSES           .             .             .  2l6 

XXIII.  DUM    SPIRO,    SPERO      ....  229 

XXIV.  DEMOCRITUS       .....  235 
XXV.  AT   A  FAIR           .....  245 

XXVI.  ON  THE  CLOUD             ....  262 

XXVII.  A  MIRACLE          .  .  .  .  .27! 

XXVIII.  THE   FINE   WAY              ....  278 

XXIX.  FOUND 289 

XXX.  THE   RETURN      .....  296 

XXXI.  DEMOCRITUS   ARRIVES   TO   STAY  .             .  302 

XXXII.  PER  ASPERA  AD   ASTRA        .             .             .  306 


THE    PEACOCK    FEATHER 


The  Peacock  Feather 


PROLOGUE 

IT  was  sunset. 

The  sea,  which  all  day  long  had  lain  blue 
and  sparkling,  was  changing  slowly  to  a  warm 
grey  shot  with  moving  purple  and  gold.  The 
sky  flamed  with  crimson  and  amber.  But  grad- 
ually the  vivid  warmth  sank  and  faded;  day 
slowly  withdrew  into  the  soft  embrace  of  night, 
and  a  blue-grey  mantle  covered  sea  and  sky  and 
land.  One  by  one  the  stars  shone  forth  till  over- 
head the  mantle  was  thickly  powdered  with  their 
twinkling  eyes. 

Away  across  the  water  the  gleam  from  the 
lantern  of  a  lightship  appeared  at  intervals,  while 
every  now  and  then  a  stronger  flash  from  a  distant 
lighthouse  lit  up  the  darkness.  It  flung  its  rays 
broadcast,  across  the  water,  across  the  land,  bring- 

i 


2  The  Peacock  Feather 

ing  momentarily  into  startling  prominence  a  great 
mass  of  building  standing  on  the  top  of  the  cliffs. 

In  the  building  a  man  was  clinging  with  both 
hands  to  a  couple  of  iron  bars  that  guarded  the 
narrow  opening  of  his  cell  window.  He  could  see 
across  the  water  and  up  to  the  star-embroidered 
mantle  of  the  sky. 

Night  after  night  for  three  years  he  had  looked 
at  that  moving  water.  He  had  seen  it  lying  calm 
and  peaceful  as  it  lay  to-night;  he  had  seen  it 
rearing  angry  foam-crested  waves  from  inky 
blackness.  He  had  heard  its  soft,  sighing  music; 
he  had  heard  its  sullen  roar. 

Three  years!  More  than  a  thousand  nights  he 
had  looked  from  that  narrow  slit  of  a  window, 
his  hands  fast  clutching  the  bars,  his  feet  finding 
slight  and  precarious  foothold  in  the  uneven  sur- 
face of  the  wall! 

And  to-night  he  looked  for  the  last  time.  To- 
morrow he  would  be  free,  free  as  the  sea-gulls  which 
circled  and  dipped  in  the  water  along  the  rocky 
coast  or  rose  screaming  and  battling  against  the 
tearing  wind. 

He  slipped  down  from  the  window  and  crossed 
to  his  pallet  bed. 


Prologue  3 

Free!  Until  to-night  he  had  never  dared  even 
to  whisper  that  word  to  his  inmost  soul.  Through- 
out the  long  three  years  he  had  refused  to  let  him- 
self think  for  more  than  the  day,  the  moment. 
He  had  held  his  mind  in  close  confinement,  a 
confinement  even  more  stringent  than  that  to 
which  his  body  was  subjected. 

Now  in  that  little  cell  he  opened  the  windows 
of  his  soul  and  let  his  mind  go  forth.  Radiant, 
exuberant,  it  escaped  from  its  cage.  It  came  forth 
singing  a  Te  Deum.  Only  a  few  more  hours  and 
dawn  would  break.  His  body  would  know  the 
liberty  he  had  already  given  to  his  mind.  He  was 
too  happy  to  sleep.  He  lay  wakeful  and  very 
still  on  his  bed,  the  silence  only  occasionally  broken 
by  the  footfall  of  a  warder  in  the  passage  outside. 

The  night  wore  on.  Gradually  the  stars 
dropped  back  one  by  one  into  the  sky,  and  away 
in  the  east  a  streak  of  saffron  light  appeared.  It 
was  day  at  last. 

Six  hours  later  a  man  was  walking  along  a  coun- 
try road.  His  step  was  light  and  his  face  held  up 
to  meet  the  fresh  March  wind  that  was  blowing 
across  the  fields  and  hedges. 


4  The  Peacock  Feather 

Daffodils  nodded  their  golden  heads  at  him  from 
the  banks  as  he  passed,  and  tiny  green  buds  on 
the  brown  branches  were  pushing  forward  to  the 
light.  The  whole  world  was  vital,  radiant,  teem- 
ing with  growth. 

The  man  held  one  hand  in  the  pocket  of  his 
grey  flannel  coat,  his  fingers  pressing  on  two  envel- 
opes which  lay  there.  They  had  been  handed  to 
him  just  before  he  left  the  great  grey  prison.  He 
had  not  yet  opened  them.  For  one  thing,  he 
wanted  to  put  a  certain  distance  between  his 
present  self  and  the  past  three  years  before  he 
broke  the  seals.  For  another  thing,  he  was  deny- 
ing himself,  prolonging  the  pleasure  of  anticipation. 

Now  he  saw  a  stile  before  him,  set  in  the  hedge 
a  little  way  back  from  the  road,  and  with  a  patch 
of  grass  before  it.  In  the  grass  gleamed  a  few 
pink-tipped  daisies. 

The  man  went  across  the  grass  and  sat  down 
on  the  stile.  He  pulled  the  two  letters  from  his 
pocket  and  looked  at  them.  One  was  addressed 
in  a  masculine  handwriting,  small,  square,  and 
very  firm.  The  other  writing  was  delicate  but 
larger.  It  was  evidently  that  of  a  woman. 

He  opened  the  firmly  addressed  envelope  first, 


Prologue  5 

and  pulled  out  its  contents.  A  strip  of  pink 
paper  fluttered  to  the  ground,  falling  among 
the  daisies.  He  picked  it  up  without  looking  at 
it  while  he  read  the  contents  of  the  letter. 

"I  have  no  desire  that  you  should  starve, 
and  therefore  send  you  the  enclosed.  Kindly 
understand,  however,  that  I  do  not  wish  to  see  you 
for  the  present.  When  you  have  partially  blotted 
out  the  past  by  obtaining  decent  work  and  prov- 
ing your  repentance,  I  will  reconsider  this  decision. 

"  RICHARD  CARDEN." 

The  cheque  was  for  two  hundred  pounds. 
The  man  laughed,  but  the  sound  of  his  laugh 
was  not  very  pleasant. 

He  broke  the  seal  of  the  second  letter. 

"I  did  not  write  before,"  the  letter  ran,  "be- 
cause I  did  not  want  you  to  brood  over  what  I  have 
to  say,  though  you  must  have  known  that  my 
saying  it  was  inevitable.  Of  course  you  have 
known  from  the  first  that  you  have  by  your  own 
conduct  put  an  end  to  our  engagement.  I  did 
not  write  at  once  and  tell  you  so  myself,  for  fear 


6  The  Peacock  Feather 

of  adding  to  your  pain.  But  you  must  have  under- 
stood. You  will  not  attempt  to  see  me,  or  write 
to  me.  It  would  be  quite  useless.  I  am  going  to 
be  married  in  three  weeks'  time.  I  am  very  sorry 
for  you  and  I  would  have  helped  you  if  I  could,  but 
you  must  see  for  yourself  it  is  impossible.  There  is 
nothing  now  to  say  but  good-bye. 

"M." 

When  the  man  had  finished  reading  he  sat  very 
still,  so  still  that  a  robin  hopped  down  near  him 
and  began  investigating  the  toe  of  his  boot.  Find- 
ing nothing  in  a  piece  of  black  leather  of  interest, 
it  flew  up  to  the  hedge,  and  regarded  the  motionless 
figure  with  round  beady  eyes.  At  last  the  figure 
moved.  The  robin  flew  a  couple  of  yards  farther 
away,  then  perched  again  to  watch. 

It  saw  the  man  tearing  white  and  pink  paper 
into  very  small  pieces.  Then  it  saw  him  bend 
down  and  dig  a  hole  in  the  earth  with  a  clasp- 
knife.  It  saw  him  place  the  pieces  of  torn  paper 
in  the  hole  and  replace  the  earth,  which  he  pressed 
firmly  down.  Then  it  heard  the  man  speak. 

"At  least  I  will  give  the  past  decent  burial. " 

The  robin  did  not  understand  the  words.     What 


Prologue  7 

has  a  gay  little  redbreast  to  do  with  either  the  past 
or  the  future?  The  moment  is  quite  enough. 

Then  the  man  stood  up,  and  the  robin  saw  his 
face.  It  had  grown  much  older  in  the  last  twenty 
minutes. 

"And  now,"  said  the  man  jauntily,  though  his 
eyes  belied  the  carelessness  of  the  words,  "for  the 
open  road." 

Perhaps  the  robin  understood  that  speech.  At 
any  rate  it  sang  a  sweet  sturdy  song  of  Amen. 


CHAPTER  I 

THE    PIPER 

PETER  was  sitting  under  a  hedge,  playing  on  a 
penny  whistle.  Behind  him  was  a  bush,  snowy 
with  the  white  flowers  of  the  hawthorn.  In  front 
of  him  was  a  field,  warm  with  the  gold  of  butter- 
cups. Away  in  a  distant  valley  were  the  roofs 
of  cottages  and  a  farmhouse.  The  smoke  from 
one  of  its  chimneys  rose  thin  and  blue  in  the 
still  air.  It  was  all  very  peaceful,  ideally 
English. 

Peter  was  an  artist.  It  seemed  almost  in- 
credible that  a  tin  instrument  which  could  be 
purchased  for  a  penny  could  be  made  to  produce 
such  sounds. 

He  was  playing  a  joyous  lilt.  You  could  hear 
the  song  of  birds  and  feel  the  soft  west  wind  blow- 
ing from  distant  places;  and  through  it  was  a 
measured  beat  as  of  feet  walking  along  the  open 

8 


The  Piper  9 

road.  Yet  under  all  the  gaiety  and  light-hearted- 
ness  lay  a  strange  minor  note,  a  note  that  somehow 
found  reflection  in  Peter's  blue  eyes. 

Peter  finished  his  tune  and  put  the  whistle-pipe 
in  his  pocket.  From  a  wallet  beside  him  he 
pulled  out  a  hunch  of  bread  and  cheese  and  a  very 
red  and  shiny  apple.  He  opened  a  large  clasp- 
knife,  cut  the  hunch  of  bread  in  two,  and  fell 
to  eating  slowly.  His  hands  were  long-fingered, 
flexible,  and  very  brown.  There  was  a  lean, 
muscular  look  about  Peter  altogether.  His  clothes 
were  distinctly  shabby.  They  consisted  of  a  pair 
of  grey  trousers,  very  frayed  at  the  edges,  and  with 
a  patch  of  some  darker  material  on  one  knee ;  a  soft 
white  shirt,  spotlessly  clean;  and  a  loose  jacket, 
grey  flannel  like  the  trousers.  A  felt  hat  lay  on  the 
ground  near  him.  In  it  was  fantastically  stuck  a 
peacock  feather.  Beside  the  hat  was  a  small 
bundle  rolled  up  in  a  bit  of  sacking. 

Peter  finished  the  bread  and  cheese  and  the 
apple,  and  put  the  clasp-knife  back  into  his 
pocket.  From  another  pocket  he  pulled  out  a 
small  book,  the  cover  rather  limp  and  worn.  He 
tucked  the  bundle  behind  his  back  and  opened  the 
book.  Its  contents  did  not  long  engross  him. 


io  The  Peacock  Feather 

The  warm  May  sun  and  the  fact  that  he  had 
tramped  a  considerable  number  of  miles  since  sun- 
rise had  a  soporific  effect  on  Peter.  His  fingers 
gradually  relaxed  their  hold,  the  book  fell  to  the 
ground,  and  Peter  slept. 

His  slumber  was  so  deep  that  he  did  not  hear 
the  footfall  of  a  man  on  the  soft  grass,  nor  did  he 
stir  when  the  man  came  near  and  stood  looking 
down  upon  him.  He  was  a  man  of  medium  height 
and  build,  with  brown  hair,  small  moustache, 
and  rather  light  eyes.  There  was  about  him  an 
air  of  finish,  yet  he  quite  escaped  the  epithet  of 
dapper. 

For  a  moment  or  so  he  stood  looking  down  upon 
the  recumbent  figure.  He  took  in  every  detail, 
from  the  frayed  trousers  and  the  spotless  shirt  to 
the  fantastic  feather  in  the  hat.  He  saw  that 
the  sleeper's  face  was  clean-shaven,  bronzed,  and 
with  rather  high  cheek-bones.  The  hair  was 
dark.  There  was  in  the  sleeping  face  a  look  of 
quiet  weariness.  To  the  man  watching  him  it 
was  the  face  of  one  who  was  lonely. 

Then  his  eye  fell  upon  the  book.  He  stooped 
down  and  gently  picked  it  up.  The  book  was 
open  at  the  following  lines: 


The  Piper  n 

"Sin  I  fro  Love  escaped  am  so  fat, 

I  never  thenk  to  ben  in  his  prison  lene; 

Sin  I  am  free,  I  counte  him  not  a  bene. 
He  may  answere,  and  say  this  or  that; 

I  do  no  fors,  I  speke  right  as  I  mene. 
Sin  I  fro  Love  escaped  am  so  fat, 

I  never  thenk  to  ben  in  his  prison  lene. 

"Love  hath  my  name  y-strike  out  of  his  sclat, 
And  he  is  strike  out  of  my  bokes  clene 
For  ever-mo;  ther  is  non  other  mene. 
Sin  I  fro  Love  escaped  am  so  fat, 

I  never  thenk  to  ben  in  his  prison  lene; 
Sin  I  am  free  I  count  him  not  a  bene. " 

Ten  minutes  later  Peter  stirred  and  yawned. 
He  sat  up  and  began  to  stretch  himself.  But 
in  the  very  act  thereof  he  stopped,  and  a  gleam 
of  humorous  amazement  shot  into  his  blue  eyes, 
for  on  the  grass  beside  him  a  man  was  sitting, 
calmly  reading  from  his  own  rather  shabby 
book. 

The  man  looked  up. 

"Don't  let  me  interrupt  you,"  said  Peter,  with 
a  brilliant  smile. 

The  man  laughed.  "I  ought  to  apologize,"  he 
said.  "The  fact  is,  when  I  first  saw  you  lying 
there  asleep  I  took  you  for  a  tramp.  Then  I 


12  The  Peacock  Feather 

came  nearer  and  saw  my  mistake.  I  also  saw  the 
book.  The  temptation  to  talk  to  a  man  who 
obviously  loved  the  open  air  and  read  Chaucer 
was  too  much  for  me.  I  sat  down  to  wait  till  you 
should  awake. " 

"Very  good  of  you,"  replied  Peter.  "But  you 
didn't  make  a  mistake,  I  am  a  tramp. " 

"So  am  I,"  responded  the  other,  "on  a  walking 
tour. " 

Peter  sat  up  very  deliberately  now.  He  broke 
off  a  piece  of  grass,  which  he  began  to  nibble. 
Through  the  nibbling  he  spoke: 

"But  I  presume  that  your  walking  tour  is  of 
fairly  brief  duration;  mine  has  lasted  rather 
more  than  two  years." 

The  other  man  looked  at  him  curiously.  "You 
love  the  open  as  much  as  that?" 

"Oh,  I  love  the  open  well  enough,"  replied 
Peter  airily;  "but  that's  not  the  whole  reason. 
I  can't  afford  a  roof. " 

Now,  the  very  obvious  reply  to  this  would  have 
been  that  Peter,  a  young  man  and,  moreover, 
clearly  one  of  education,  might  very  well  work  for  a 
roof.  But  it  being  so  extremely  obvious  that  this 
was  what  Peter  might  do,  it  was  also  obvious  that 


The  Piper  13 

there  was  some  excellent  reason  why  he  did  not 
do  it. 

The  man  was  silent.  Peter  appreciated  his 
silence. 

"The  fact  is,"  said  Peter  deliberately,  "that 
prior  to  my  starting  this  'walking  tour,'  as  you 
so  kindly  term  it,  I  had  spent  three  years  in  prison 
for  forgery  and  embezzling  a  considerable  sum  of 
money." 

"Ah!"  said  the  man  quietly,  watching  him. 

"There  are  always  the  colonies,"  went  on 
Peter  carelessly.  "But  somehow  I've  a  predilec- 
tion for  England.  Of  course,  in  England  there 
is  the  disadvantage  that  you're  bound  to  produce 
references  if  you  want  work — I  mean  the  kind 
of  work  that  would  appeal  to  me.  I  dare  say  I 
might  get  taken  on  as  a  day  labourer  on  a  farm, 
but  even  there  my  speech  is  against  me;  it  makes 
people  suspicious." 

"But  how  do  you  manage?"  asked  the  other 
curiously. 

Peter  laughed.  He  pulled  his  whistle-pipe 
from  his  pocket. 

"I  pipe  for  my  bread,"  he  said,  "They  call 
me  Peter  the  Piper, " 


14  The  Peacock  Feather 

The  other  man  nodded.  "Good,"  he  said; 
"I  like  that.  There's  a  flavour  of  romance  about 
it  that  appeals  tome.  My  name's  Neil  Macdonald." 

Peter  looked  at  him.  "Then  you  don't  mind 
introducing  yourself  to  a  jail-bird?"  he  asked 
jauntily ;  but  there  was  an  underhint  of  wistfulness 
in  the  words. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  responded  Neil,  "I  have 
some  intuition.  It's  so  absolutely  apparent  that 
you  must  have  been  shielding  some  one  else, 
that " 

Peter  interrupted  him.  The  pupils  of  his 
blue  eyes  had  contracted  till  they  looked  like 
two  pinpricks. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  slowly;  "I  said 
that  I  spent  three  years  in  prison  for  forgery 
and  embezzlement."  He  looked  Neil  full  in  the 
face. 

Neil  held  out  his  hand.  " I  apologize, "  he  said; 
"it  was  extremely  clumsy  of  me." 

Peter  took  his  hand  with  a  light  laugh.  "It 
was  rather  decent  of  you,  all  the  same,"  he  said, 
"though,  of  course,  utterly  absurd.  You're  the 
first  man,  though,  that's  committed  the  absurdity. 
You  happen,  too,  to  be  the  first  man  with  whom 


The  Piper  15 

I've  shaken  hands  since  I  freed  myself  from  the 
clasp  of  a  Salvation  Army  brother  who  met  me 
outside  the  prison  gates  and  talked  about  my  soul. 
I  hadn't  the  smallest  interest  in  my  soul  at  the 
moment.  I  wanted  a  cigarette  and  a  drink  more 
than  anything  in  heaven  or  earth.  He  was  a 
good-meaning  fellow,  of  course,  but — well,  just 
a  little  wanting  in  tact.  Of  course,  there  were 
others  ready  to  hold  out  the  hand  of  pity  if  I'd 
asked  for  it.  But  there'd  have  been  something 
slippery  about  the  touch.  The  oil  of  charity 
doesn't  appeal  to  me." 

There  was  a  pause.  Somewhere  in  the  blue- 
ness  a  lark  was  singing,  an  exuberant  feathered 
morsel,  pouring  forth  his  very  soul  in  song. 

Neil  broke  the  silence.  "Pipe  to  me,"  he 
said. 

Peter  laughed.  He  pulled  the  whistle  from  his 
pocket,  and  his  fingers  held  it  very  lovingly.  He 
put  it  to  his  lips. 

First  there  came  a  couple  of  clear  notes,  like 
a  bird-call;  they  repeated  themselves  in  the  dis- 
tance and  were  answered.  Then  the  air  became 
alive  with  the  joyous  warbling  of  feathered  chor- 
isters, and  through  the  warbling  came  the  sound 


16  The  Peacock  Feather 

of  little  rills  chasing  each  other  over,  brown  stones, 
where  fish  darted  in  the  sunlight  and  dragonflies 
skimmed.  Next,  across  a  meadow — one  knew 
it  was  a  meadow — came  the  sound  of  little  feet 
and  children's  laughter.  And  the  sound  of  the 
laughter  and  the  babbling  of  the  water  and  the 
song  of  the  birds  were  all  mingled  in  one  delicious 
bubbling  melody  drawn  from  the  very  heart  of 
Nature.  It  came  to  a  pause.  You  felt  the  children, 
the  birds,  and  the  brooks  hold  their  breath  to 
listen.  And  then  from  the  branches  of  some  tree 
a  hidden  nightingale  sang  alone. 

Peter  stopped,  wiped  the  pipe  on  his  sleeve,  and 
put  it  back  in  his  pocket. 

" Marvellous!"  breathed  Neil  softly. 

Again  there  was  a  pause,  and  again  it  was  broken 
by  Neil. 

"I  say,  will  you  come  back  and  have  lunch 
with  me?"  There  was  a  frank  spontaneity  about 
the  question. 

Again  the  wistful  look  crept  into  Peter's  blue 
eyes.  The  suggestion  coming  suddenly  was  evi- 
dently somewhat  of  a  temptation. 

"  I  believe  I'd  like  to,"  he  said  lightly,  "but " 

"Well?"  asked  Neil. 


The  Piper  17 

Peter  shook  his  head.  "I  think  not,"  he  said. 
"There  are  quite  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine 
reasons  against  it,  and  only  one  for  it." 

"And  isn't  the  one  reason  good  enough  to 
counteract  the  others?" 

Peter  laughed.  "I  fancy  not.  The  high-road 
has  claimed  me,  the  hedge-side  is  my  dining- 
place,  the  sky  my  roof.  When  it  is  too  unkind 
to  me,  I  seek  shelter  in  a  barn.  I've  struck  up 
a  kind  of  silent  intimacy  with  cows,  sheep,  and 
horses.  I've  found  them,  indeed,  quite  pleased  to 
welcome  me." 

"It  must  be  horribly  lonely,"  said  Neil  impul- 
sively. 

Peter  looked  away  across  the  valley.  "I 
wonder,"  he  said.  "Perhaps  it  only  appears  so. 
Formerly  I  walked  the  earth  in  company,  and 
when  I  got  near  enough  to  a  fellow-creature  to 
believe  that  I  had  the  right  to  call  him  comrade, 
I  suddenly  realized  that  I  was  looking  into  the 
face  of  a  complete  stranger.  Somehow  the 
loneliness  struck  deeper  home  at  those  moments. 
Now — well,  one  just  expects  nothing." 

Neil  glanced  down  at  the  book  he  was  still 
holding  in  his  hand. 


i8  The  Peacock  Feather 

Peter  smiled. 

"Love  hath  my  name  y-strike  out  of  his  sclat, 
And  he  is  strike  out  of  my  bokes  clene 
For  ever-mo  .    .    . 
Sin  I  am  free  I  count  him  not  a  bene, " 

he  quoted.  "There's  a  freedom  about  that, 
a  kind  of  clean-washedness  which  is  very  whole- 
some; the  fresh  rain  upon  one's  face  in  high  places 
after  a  room  full  of  hot-house  flowers."  He 
stopped.  "Heaven  knows  why  I  am  talking  to 
you  like  this,"  he  said  whimsically. 

"I  don't  fancy,"  said  Neil  calmly,  "that  you've 
ever  been  really  in  love." 

"No?"  smiled  Peter. 

"Of  course,  you  think  you  have,"  went  on 
Neil. 

"Indeed?"  smiled  Peter  again. 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  going  to  argue  with  you, "  said  the 
other  good-humouredly,  "only  when  the  time 
comes  that  you  do  love,  just  do  me  the  favour  to 
remember  what  I  've  said." 

"'He  is  strike  out  of  my  bokes  clene,'" 
quoted  Peter  again,  looking  at  Neil  lazily. 


The  Piper  19 

"There  is,"  said  Neil,  "such  a  thing  as  invisible 
ink.  There  are  certain  words  written  with  it  on 
the  pages  of  our  lives.  The  pages  look  uncom- 
monly blank,  but  should  they  chance  to  catch 
certain  heat-rays,  the  words  written  upon  them 
will  stand  out  very  black  and  clear." 

"Humph!"  said  Peter. 

"Wait  and  see,"  said  Neil. 

"All  right,"  said  Peter.  And  then  he  got  to 
his  feet.  He  picked  up  his  wallet,  bundle,  and  the 
hat  with  the  peacock  feather.  He  put  it  jauntily 
on  his  head. 

"  I  must  be  moving  on, "  he  said. 

Neil,  too,  had  risen.  He  held  out  the  limp  book. 
Peter  took  it  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

"Chaucer  or  you,"  he  said,  "which  am  I  to 
believe?" 

1 '  Believe  which  you  like, ' '  retorted  Neil.  ' '  Time 
will  bring  the  proof.  I'm  glad  I  met  you."  He 
held  out  his  hand. 

Peter  took  it.  "Common  politeness,"  he  said, 
"should  make  me  echo  that  sentiment.  Truth 
obliges  me  to  hesitate.  Yet  frankly  I  like  you. 
Perhaps  you  have  sufficient  acumen  to  guess  at 
the  reason  for  my  hesitation.  Well,  good-bye." 


20  The  Peacock  Feather 

Peter  vaulted  over  a  stile  that  led  into  the 
high-road.  He  turned  and  waved  his  hat  in  the 
direction  of  the  man  looking  after  him,  then  started 
off  at  a  swinging  pace.  Ten  minutes  took  him 
into  the  valley,  then  he  began  to  ascend.  Part 
way  up  the  hill  he  turned  and  looked  at  the  now 
distant  field. 

"Oh,  damn ! "  he  said  half  ruef ully .  ' ' Why  the 
devil  did  I  meet  him!" 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  FIRST-BORN 

IT  was  about  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  that 
Peter  entered  a  small  market-town. 

There  were  a  good  many  people  in  the  streets, 
for  it  was  market-day,  and  there  was  an  air  of 
leisurely  business  about  the  place;  completed 
business  chiefly,  for  already  stalls  were  being 
dismantled,  and  unsold  butter,  eggs,  and  chickens 
were  being  repacked  in  big  baskets.  Small  groups 
of  men  stood  about  together  discussing  the  weather 
and  the  prospect  of  the  various  crops.  Carts 
drove  slowly  down  the  steep  High  Street,  return- 
ing to  outlying  farms. 

Peter  walked  up  the  hill.  One  or  two  people 
turned  to  look  at  him.  Something  about  him — 
probably  the  peacock  feather  in  his  hat — attracted 
attention. 

Half-way  up  the  street  stood  a  big  red-brick 

21 


22  The  Peacock  Feather 

post-office.  It  was  an  imposing  edifice,  and 
seemed  to  dominate  the  other  buildings  with  an 
air  of  Government  importance. 

As  Peter  approached  it  he  felt  his  heart  beating 
quickly.  On  the  steps  he  paused  for  a  moment. 
A  girl  with  a  small  Yorkshire  terrier  tucked  under 
her  arm  was  just  coming  out.  She  saw  Peter  on 
the  steps,  and  kept  her  hand  on  the  swinging  door 
in  order  that  he  might  enter.  There  was  nothing 
for  it  but  to  go  forward  quickly  and  catch  the  door 
from  her  with  a  murmured  word  of  thanks.  Peter 
was  inside  the  post-office.  He  approached  the 
counter. 

"Are  there  any  letters  for  the  name  of  Garden?" 
he  asked.  And  he  could  hear  his  heart  going 
klip-klop. 

The  young  woman  behind  the  counter  glanced 
at  him.  Her  look  was  rather  disdainful,  and 
she  turned  in  a  nonchalant  fashion  to  the  pigeon- 
holes behind  her.  She  did  not  think  it  likely 
there  would  be  letters.  The  young  man  was — 
A,  B,  C.  She  took  a  parcel  and  several  letters 
from  the  pigeon-hole  marked  C  and  ran  carelessly 
through  them. 

Peter   saw   her   stop.     She   put   back   several 


The  First-Born  23 

documents  and  came  towards  him.  There  was 
a  letter  and  a  parcel  in  her  hand. 

The  girl  looked  at  him.  She  was  a  little  puzzled. 
Perhaps  her  first  instinct  had  been  at  fault.  In 
spite  of  the  shabby  coat  and  hat  and  the  ex- 
tremely fantastic  feather,  he  did  not  look  alto- 
gether a  tramp.  She  handed  the  things  across 
the  counter. 

"Thanks,"  said  Peter.  He  tried  hard  to 
keep  a  note  of  excited  pleasure  out  of  his  voice. 

He  put  the  letter  into  his  pocket,  but  kept  the 
parcel  in  his  hand.  He  came  out  of  the  post-office 
and  turned  up  the  hill,  walking  rather  quickly. 
He  passed  shops  and  some  old-fashioned  houses  in 
a  row.  At  the  top  of  the  street  was  a  big  house 
wall-enclosed.  He  left  it  on  his  right,  and  passed 
more  houses  of  the  villa  order,  evidently  recently 
built.  Presently  they  gave  place  to  cottages. 
Peter  quickened  his  pace,  and  all  the  time  he  was 
fingering  that  brown-paper  parcel.  At  last  the 
cottages,  too,  were  left  behind,  and  there  was 
nothing  but  hedges  and  fields  before  him. 

Peter  turned  into  one  of  the  fields  and  sat  down 
on  the  grass.  He  took  out  his  clasp-knife  and 
cut  the  string  that  held  the  parcel,  pulling  forth 


24  The  Peacock  Feather 

the  contents.  A  book,  green-covered,  with  the 
title  in  gold  lettering,  was  in  his  hand. 

"Under  the  Span  of  the  Rainbow,  by  Robin 
Adair,"  so  the  lettering  ran.  The  last  was,  of 
course,  a  pseudonym. 

Peter  looked  at  it ;  then  slowly,  shyly,  he  opened 
the  cover. 

With  almost  just  such  reverence  might  a  mother 
look  on  her  new-born  babe,  marvelling  at  her  own 
creation,  and  quite  regardless  of  the  fact  that  the 
same  great  miracle  has  been  performed  times  out 
of  number  in  the  world,  and  will  be  performed 
again  as  frequently. 

This  was  Peter's  child,  his  first-born.  Through 
months  of  slow  travail  it  had  been  created  and 
brought  forth.  Under  hedges  in  the  open  air,  in 
barns  by  the  light  of  a  single  candle,  he  had  worked 
while  dumb  beasts  had  looked  at  him  with  mild, 
wondering  eyes.  In  sunshine  and  in  cloud  it  had 
been  with  him;  soft  winds  had  rustled  its  pages, 
cold  blasts  had  crept  under  doors  and  chilled  his 
fingers  while  he  wrote.  And  now  at  last,  fair  and 
in  dainty  garb,  it  came  forth  to  the  world,  breath- 
ing the  clean  freshness  of  open  spaces,  of  sun  and 
wind  and  rain;  tender  with  the  magic  of  nights, 


The  First-Born  25 

buoyant  with  the  vitality  of  sunrise.  And  yet 
through  it  all,  as  through  his  piping,  lay  the  strange 
minor  note,  the  underhint  of  longing. 

Peter  looked  up.  His  blue  eyes  were  dancing 
with  happiness. 

"Ouf !"  he  said  with  a  sigh  of  supreme  content, 
stretching  his  long  lean  limbs;  "it's  good  to  have 
done  it." 

Then  he  opened  the  letter.  It  was  merely  a 
typewritten  communication  from  the  publishers, 
informing  him  that  they  were  sending  him  one 
copy  only  of  his  book,  according  to  his  wish,  and 
were  addressing  both  it  and  the  letter  to  the  post- 
office  he  had  mentioned.  It  ended  by  hoping  that 
the  book  would  be  successful,  to  their  mutual 
advantage. 

The  businesslike  tone  of  the  letter  brought 
Peter  down  to  earth  again.  He  had  been  tem- 
porarily in  heaven.  The  descent,  however,  was 
not  a  jarring  one. 

He  replaced  the  book  in  the  brown  paper,  put 
it  carefully  in  his  wallet,  and  started  off  across  the 
fields. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  DESERTED  COTTAGE 

FOR  some  time  there  was  nothing  but  open 
country  around  him,  though  in  the  far  distance 
he  saw  an  occasional  farmhouse. 

At  last,  however,  he  saw  the  roofs  of  cottages, 
and  realized  that  he  was  approaching  a  village. 
The  square  tower  of  a  church,  and  a  big  house  half 
hidden  by  trees  on  higher  ground  beyond  the  cot- 
tages, made  it  probable  that  it  was  more  than 
merely  a  hamlet. 

Just  before  he  reached  it  a  sharp  turn  in  the 
lane  brought  him  upon  a  very  minute  copse  set  a 
pace  or  so  back  from  the  road,  and  in  the  copse  was 
a  small  cottage  or  hut.  There  was  a  forlorn 
look  about  it,  and  the  windows  were  broken. 

Peter  peered  through  the  trees.  There  was  no 
sign  of  life  whatever.  The  place  was  apparently 
deserted.  A  couple  of  yards  farther  on  a  small  and 

26 


The  Deserted  Cottage  27 

broken  gate  led  into  the  copse.  The  gate  was 
hanging  on  one  hinge  in  a  dejected  and  melancholy 
fashion. 

Peter  propped  it  up  with  a  little  pat  of  encour- 
agement before  he  passed  through  it  and  up  among 
the  trees  to  the  cottage  door.  It  was  unfastened, 
and  Peter  went  in.  He  found  himself  in  a  small 
square  room.  To  his  amazement  it  was  not  empty, 
as  he  had  imagined  to  find  it.  On  the  contrary, 
it  was  quite  moderately  furnished. 

A  low  bed  stood  at  one  side  of  the  room;  it 
was  covered  with  a  faded  blue  quilt.  A  cupboard 
with  a  few  tea-things  on  it  stood  against  one  wall. 
A  table,  old  and  worm-eaten,  was  in  the  centre  of 
the  room.  There  were  two  wooden  chairs,  and  a 
wooden  armchair  with  a  dilapidated  rush  seat. 
There  was  a  big  open  fireplace  with  an  iron  staple 
in  the  wall;  from  this  staple  was  suspended  an 
iron  hook.  Both  were  thickly  covered  with  rust. 
On  the  shelf  above  the  fireplace  was  a  clock;  it 
was  flanked  by  a  couple  of  copper  candlesticks 
covered  with  verdigris.  Ragged  yellow  curtains 
hung  before  the  broken  window. 

And  everywhere  there  was  dust.  It  lay  thickly 
on  the  table  and  the  chairs;  the  tea-things  on  the 


28  The  Peacock  Feather 

cupboard  were  covered  with  it.  It  lay  upon  the 
floor  in  a  soft  grey  carpet,  thicker  at  the  far  side 
of  the  room,  where  the  wind  through  the  broken 
window  had  swept  it  in  a  little  drift  against  the 
wall. 

Peter  looked  around  in  bewilderment.  During 
how  many  years  had  this  dust  accumulated? 
What  memories,  what  secrets,  lay  buried  beneath 
it? 

He  looked  towards  the  fireplace.  Charred 
embers  were  within  it.  By  the  hearth  lay  an  old 
newspaper.  Peter  picked  it  up.  It  tore  as  he 
touched  it.  It  bore  the  date  May  the  nineteenth, 
eighteen  hundred  and  sixty-six.  Forty-five  years 
ago!  Had  this  cottage  lain  uninhabited  for  forty- 
five  years? — thirteen  years  before  he  was  even 
born !  He  glanced  up  at  the  clock.  It  had  stopped 
at  twelve  o'clock — midnight  or  noon,  who  was  to 
say? 

Peter  turned  and  again  looked  round  the  place. 
At  the  foot  of  the  bed  was  another  door.  He  opened 
it,  and  found  himself  in  a  minute  room  or  scullery. 
It  contained  a  copper,  a  row  of  shelves,  a  pump, 
and  an  iron  bucket.  The  window  here,  too,  was 
broken,  the  place  as  thickly  shrouded  in  dust. 


The  Deserted  Cottage  29 

Peter  returned  to  the  dwelling-room. 

"Apparently  I  have  it  all  to  myself,"  he  said; 
"and  for  to-night  at  least  I  intend  to  quarter  here, 
for  if  I'm  not  much  mistaken  there's  a  storm 
coming  up  from  the  west." 

Peter  put  his  wallet  and  bundle  down  on  the 
table  and  went  out  into  the  copse.  He  began 
collecting  bits  of  dead  wood  from  under  the  trees, 
and  there  was  abundance  strewn  on  the  ground, 
also  fir-cones,  for  the  trees  were  Scotch  firs.  It 
was  already  drawing  on  to  dusk,  and  clouds  were 
being  blown  across  the  sky  by  a  soft  wet  wind  from 
the  west. 

As  Peter  had  just  collected  his  second  armful 
of  sticks,  he  heard  steps  coming  along  the  road. 
He  paused  before  entering  the  cottage  to  see  who 
it  might  be.  They  were  light  steps,  probably 
those  of  children. 

In  a  moment  they  came  in  sight — two  little 
girls,  chattering  eagerly,  and  walking  quickly, 
for  the  sky  looked  threatening.  As  they  neared 
the  copse  one  of  the  children  looked  up.  She 
clutched  her  companion's  arm. 

"Look  there!"  she  said.  There  was  terror  in 
her  voice. 


30  The  Peacock  Feather 

The  other  child  looked,  screamed,  and  they  both 
set  off  running  frantically  down  the  road. 

"Great  Scot!"  ejaculated  Peter;  "did  they 
take  me  for  a  ghost,  or  do  they  think  I'm  a  poacher, 
and  have  gone  to  inform  the  neighbourhood? 
Trust  they  won't  disturb  me ;  I've  no  mind  to  turn 
out  into  the  deluge  that's  coming. " 

A  couple  of  large  drops  of  rain  splashed  down 
on  his  hand  as  he  spoke,  and  he  re-entered  the 
cottage.  He  placed  his  second  armful  of  sticks 
beside  the  fireplace.  First  he  cleared  away  the 
charred  embers  in  the  hearth,  then  began  arrang- 
ing the  newly  collected  sticks  with  the  skill  born 
of  long  practice  in  the  art  of  fire-making.  This 
done,  he  went  into  the  inner  room  and  took  up  the 
bucket.  The  pump  was  stiff  with  rust  and  disuse, 
but  Peter's  vigorous  arm  soon  triumphed  over  the 
stiffness,  and,  filling  the  bucket  with  water,  he 
returned  to  the  living-room.  Here,  with  the  aid 
of  a  couple  of  ragged  cloths,  he  made  a  partial 
onslaught  against  the  dust.  The  room  became  at 
least  habitable  to  one  not  over-fastidious.  Moth, 
by  some  miracle,  seemed  to  have  left  the  place 
untouched,  though  the  bedclothes  were  damp 
with  mildew. 


The  Deserted  Cottage  31 

The  cleansing  process  at  least  partially  achieved, 
Peter  undid  his  wallet  and  bundles.  From  them 
he  took  a  pot,  a  tin  cup,  a  couple  of  eggs,  a  hunch 
of  bread,  and  small  piece  of  butter  wrapped  in  a 
cloth. 

He  filled  the  pot  with  water,  put  the  two  eggs  in 
it,  and  hung  it  on  the  hook  in  the  fireplace.  Then 
he  struck  a  match  and  held  it  under  the  pile  of 
sticks.  The  little  orange  flame  twined  itself 
gently  round  one  twig.  It  twisted  upward  to 
another  and  yet  another.  There  was  the  sound  of 
soft  crackling  gradually  increasing  to  a  perfect 
fairy  fusillade.  The  flames  multiplied,  leapt  from 
stick  to  stick,  while  among  their  orange  and  blue 
light  poured  a  pearly-grey  smoke. 

"Achieved,"  said  Peter  with  a  sigh,  and  he 
seated  himself  in  the  armchair  watching  the 
dancing  flames,  and  every  now  and  then  flinging 
on  an  extra  stick. 

Outside  the  rain  was  beating  on  the  roof  and 
splashing  through  the  broken  window,  while  the 
wind  -  which  had  begun  to  rise,  moaned  gently 
through  the  fir-trees,  creaking  their  branches. 

"Thanks  be  to  the  patron  saint  of  all  way- 
farers," said  Peter,  "that  I  found  this  shelter. 


32  The  Peacock  Feather 

And  if  I  knew  his  name  I'd  indite  a  poem  to  his 
memory." 

And  then  he  fell  to  thinking  of  the  young  man 
who,  earlier  in  the  day,  had  intruded  on  his  slum- 
bers and  read  poems  from  his  Chaucer.  That  he 
was  a  pleasant  young  man  Peter  had  already 
conceded.  That  he  had  combined  an  extraordi- 
nary mixture  of  intuition  with  a  certain  lack  of 
reticence  almost  amounting  to  want  of  tact,  Peter 
also  conceded.  That  there  was  nothing  about 
him  of  very  deep  psychological  interest,  Peter 
knew.  But — well,  he  was  a  man  of  gentle  birth, 
and  he  had  treated  Peter — the  wayfaring  Peter 
with  frayed  trousers  and  a  patch  on  one  knee — as 
an  equal.  It  had  left  a  very  decided  sensation  of 
pleasure.  Peter  acknowledged  to  himself  that 
he  would  have  liked  to  accept  the  young  man's 
invitation;  and  yet  if  he  had — well,,  he  would 
probably  have  drivelled  more  than  he  had  done, 
and  he  had  drivelled  quite  enough.  That  was 
the  worst  of  unaccustomed  and  genuine  inter- 
est from  one  of  your  fellow-men.  It  was  like 
wine  to  one  not  used  to  it — it  mounted  to  your 
brain,  you  became  garrulous.  To  those  who  are 
used  to  wine,  one  glass,  two  glasses,  nay,  even 


The  Deserted  Cottage  33 

three  glasses,  means  nothing.  To  those  who  have 
not  tasted  the  liquor  for  years,  half  a  glass  may 
prove  unsteadying.  It  was  not  even  as  if  it 
would  be  offered  to  him  with  sufficient  frequency 
for  him  to  become  accustomed  to  it.  No;  most 
assuredly  the  wine  of  sympathy  was  not  for  him. 

And  then  he  stopped  suddenly  in  his  meditations, 
for  the  water  in  the  pot  was  boiling. 

When  Peter  had  finished  his  meal  he  pulled 
a  brier- wood  pipe  from  his  pocket,  filled  it  with 
tobacco,  and  lit  it.  He  also  lit  a  candle,  which  he 
set  in  one  of  the  copper  candlesticks  and  placed 
upon  the  table.  Then  once  more  he  drew  his  book 
from  the  brown-paper  covering. 

For  a  time  he  sat  very  still,  only  moving  a  hand 
to  turn  the  pages.  The  candle-light  threw  his 
shadow  large  and  grotesque  on  the  dingy  wall 
behind  him.  Occasionally  the  shadow  wavered 
as  the  candle  flickered  in  the  draught  from  the 
broken  window.  The  fire  had  died  down  to  a  few 
glowing  spots  set  in  a  bed  of  grey  ashes.  Outside 
the  rain  fell  steadily,  and  the  wind  still  creaked  the 
branches  of  the  fir-trees. 

At  last  Peter  closed  the  book.  He  rolled  his 
piece  of  sacking  into  a  bundle  to  form  a  pillow,  and 


34  The  Peacock  Feather 

stretched  himself  on  the  stone  floor  before  the 
hearth.  It  was  preferable,  he  considered,  to  the 
mildewy  bed. 

"I  wonder,"  he  mused,  "who  were  the  former 
owners  of  this  place.  No  doubt  they  are  long 
since  dead.  Well,  if  so,  on  their  souls,  and  on  all 
Christian  souls,  sweet  Jesu,  have  mercy!"  He 
made  the  sign  of  the  Cross. 

In  ten  minutes  Peter  was  asleep.  He  slept 
well,  but  he  dreamt,  and  once  or  twice  through 
his  dreams  he  heard  the  sound  of  sobbing.  It 
was  a  pitiful  little  sobbing,  as  of  a  woman  in  grief, 
and  mingled  with  it  seemed  to  be  faint  half- 
articulate  words. 

Once  Peter  half -awakened,  and  for  a  moment  he 
fancied  the  sobbing  was  real,  but  reason,  which 
was  working  fitfully,  told  him  it  was  only  the  wind 
in  the  trees  without.  He  shifted  his  position  and 
fell  asleep  again. 


CHAPTER  IV 

PETER  TAKES  A  RESIDENCE 

PETER  came  out  from  the  cottage  door  in  the 
early  morning.  The  rain  of  the  previous  night  had 
ceased,  only  the  trees,  bushes,  and  grass  were  hung 
with  myriads  of  drops  sparkling  silver  and  dia- 
mond in  the  morning  sunshine.  He  smelt  the 
good  smell  of  the  wet  earth,  and  filled  his  lungs 
with  the  cool  fresh  air. 

By  rights  Peter  should  by  now  have  been  well  on 
his  way,  for,  though  his  way  led  generally  to  no 
particular  goal,  he  was  always  afoot  by  sunrise. 
But  something — Peter  did  not  know  what — held 
him  to  that  cottage.  It  was  almost  as  if  the  deso- 
late place  cried  to  him:  "Stay  with  me;  I,  too, 
am  lonely."  Certainly  something  indefinable  but 
insistent  was  drawing  him  to  remain. 

"And  why  not?"  said  Peter  half  aloud. 

And  then  he  heard  the  creaking  of  a  cart,  and 
35 


36  The  Peacock  Feather 

the  gruff  voice  of  a  carter  encouraging  his  horse. 
In  a  moment  it  came  in  sight.  The  cart  was 
empty,  and  the  man  was  sitting  on  the  side  as 
he  drove. 

"Good  morning,"  said  Peter  pleasantly,  as  the 
cart  and  man  came  abreast  of  him. 

The  carter  started,  pulled  up  suddenly,  and 
the  horse  came  to  a  standstill. 

"Well  now,"  he  said  in  amazement,  "whatever 
do-ee  be  doin'  there?" 

"  I  sheltered  here  last  night, "  said  Peter.  "Can 
you  tell  me  to  whom  this  cottage  belongs?" 

The  man  shook  his  head.  "It  don't  belong 
to  no  one,  and  that's  certain  sure." 

"But,"  argued  Peter,  "a  cottage  which  is 
obviously  built  by  human  agency  must  have  an 
owner." 

Again  the  man  shook  his  head.  "It  don't 
belong  to  no  one, "  he  reiterated. 

Peter  raised  his  eyebrows  incredulously.  "But 
why  not?"  he  demanded. 

"'Tis  evil,"  said  the  man  in  a  solemn  whisper. 

"Evil!"  echoed  Peter.  And  the  word  seemed 
as  out  of  place  in  the  morning  sunshine  as  a  cynic 
would  seem  in  fairyland. 


Peter  Takes  a  Residence  37 

The  man  nodded.  "'Tis  evil,  for  sure.  'Tis 
haunted." 

"And  by  what  is  it  haunted?"  demanded 
Peter,  curious. 

"A  bad  woman,"  said  the  man.  "Her  comes 
there  o'nights,  and  her  moans  for  that  her  soul's 
to  hell." 

Again  the  word  fell  like  a  discord  in  the  harmony 
of  sunshine  and  singing  birds.  Peter  frowned. 

"Then,"  he  asked,  "as  the  cottage  possesses 
no  owner  I  suppose  I  can  live  here  if  I  choose?" 

The  man  scratched  his  head.  "No  one  can't 
live  there  what  bain't  in  league  with  t 'devil," 
he  announced. 

Peter  smiled  brilliantly.  "Oh,"  he  said  with 
fine  assurance,  "but  I  am."  And  he  made  the 
carter  a  low  bow,  sweeping  upward  his  hat,  which 
he  had  hitherto  held  in  his  hand.  The  fantastic 
peacock  feather  came  into  view,  also  Peter  con- 
cluded the  bow  with  a  very  diabolical  grin. 

The  man  whipped  up  his  horse,  casting  a  terri- 
fied glance  over  his  shoulder  as  he  drove  off.  Peter 
waved  his  hat  with  a  mocking  laugh. 

"And  now,"  he  said,  as  the  sound  of  the  wheels 
receded  in  the  distance,  "it  is  possible  that  my 


38  The  Peacock  Feather 

averred  friendship  with  his  Satanic  Majesty 
may  gain  me  uninterrupted  possession  of  this 
place.  And — nonsense  or  not — it  is  asking  me 
to  stay." 

Suddenly,  however,  it  struck  Peter  that  it 
might  be  as  well  for  him  to  lay  in  a  small  store 
of  provisions — if  such  were  obtainable  in  the  village 
— before  the  statement  of  his  friendship  with  the 
powers  of  evil  had  been  spread  by  the  too  credulous 
carter.  Peter  was  well  aware  of  the  superstitions 
of  village  folk.  Therefore  he  set  off  at  once  down 
the  road. 

The  village  stood  for  the  most  part  around  an 
open  green,  to  the  left  of  which  was  the  grey  church 
whose  square  tower  he  had  noticed  the  previous 
day.  In  front  of  him  and  on  higher  ground,  half- 
hidden  among  the  trees,  was  a  white  house.  It 
looked  of  some  importance.  On  the  right  of  the 
green  was  the  post-office,  and  next  to  it  a  general 
provision  shop. 

Peter  went  into  the  post-office,  where  he  asked 
for  a  penny  stamp. 

The  woman  who  kept  the  place  was  a  buxom 
dame,  rosy-cheeked  and  brown-eyed.  Peter 
thought  she  might  be  possessed  of  conversational 


Peter  Takes  a  Residence  39 

powers.  He  was  right.  A  small  remark  of  his 
received  a  voluble  response.  He  ventured  another. 
It  also  was  received  in  good  part  and  the  dame's 
tongue  proved  nimble. 

For  full  half  an  hour  Peter  leant  upon  the 
counter,  speaking  but  a  word  or  two  at  intervals, 
but  finding  that  they  quite  sufficed  to  direct  the 
voluble  flow  of  speech  into  the  channels  he  desired. 
The  sound  of  the  bell  above  the  shop  door  alone 
brought  the  discourse  to  a  conclusion,  as  a  woman, 
with  a  baby  in  her  arms  and  two  children  dragging 
at  her  skirts,  entered.  She  looked  at  Peter  curi- 
ously, then,  pulling  a  shabby  purse  from  her 
pocket,  requested  the  postmistress  to  provide  her 
with  a  penny  stamp.  She  was,  so  she  stated,  about 
to  write  to  her  son  in  South  Africa. 

Peter  came  out  into  the  sunlight  with  vastly 
more  information  than  he  had  possessed  half  an 
hour  previously. 

He  turned  into  the  provision  shop,  where  he 
achieved  a  few  purchases,  and  then  made  his  way 
again  in  the  direction  of  the  desolate  cottage.  In 
his  mind  he  was  running  through  and  sorting  the 
information  he  had  received. 

First  and  foremost  it  was  perfectly  obvious  that, 


40  The  Peacock  Feather 

provided  he  had  the  temerity  to  remain  in  the 
cottage  in  which  he  had  passed  the  previous  night, 
no  one  would  say  him  nay.  It  was  held  in  ill- 
repute.  No  one  would  dream  of  entering  the  copse 
at  any  time,  and  after  nightfall  even  the  road  past 
it  was  to  be  avoided.  The  reason  for  this,  as  far 
as  Peter  could  gather,  was  as  follows. 

Some  fifty  or  sixty  years  ago  a  woman  had  lived 
in  that  cottage  with  her  daughter,  the  reputed 
beauty  of  the  village.  The  cottage  had  been  built 
on  a  bit  of  unclaimed  land  by  the  woman's  hus- 
band, who  had  died  soon  after  building  it.  It 
appeared  that  the  girl  was  a  coquette,  trifling  with 
the  solid  affection  of  the  village  swains.  That  at 
least  was  the  version  of  the  postmistress.  One  day 
some  young  gentleman  had  come  to  stay  at  the  inn. 
What  brought  him  if  it  was  not  Satan  himself  no 
one  knew.  At  all  events,  before  long  he  and  the 
village  Helen  were  seen  walking  together  on  sum- 
mer evenings.  Then  came  a  day  when  the  young 
man  left  the  inn,  and  it  was  discovered  that  the 
girl  was  missing.  Good  authority  stated  that  she 
had  gone  with  him.  It  also  stated  that  after  three 
months  he  deserted  her.  From  then  began  her 
downfall.  The  mother,  left  in  the  cottage,  faded 


Peter  Takes  a  Residence  41 

slowly  from  grief,  and  after  five  years  died.  On 
the  evening  of  her  death  a  thin  wan  woman  great 
with  child  was  seen  to  enter  the  village.  None, 
it  appeared,  had  spoken  to  her.  She  had  passed 
through  the  village  and  towards  the  cottage  where 
the  dead  woman  lay.  The  friend  who  was  keeping 
watch  saw  the  door  open  and  a  pale  woman  with 
frightened  eyes  approach  the  bed.  There  had  been 
a  terrifying  shriek  and  the  intruder  had  dropped 
to  the  ground.  During  the  hours  of  the  night  a 
little  life  had  come  forth,  which  looked  momen- 
tarily and  wearily  on  the  world.  With  a  sigh  it 
had  gone  out  again  into  the  silence,  where  at  dawn 
the  weary  mother  had  followed  it.  But  remorse, 
so  it  was  said,  had  chained  her  to  the  spot  where 
her  own  mother  had  died,  and  throughout  the 
following  nights  her  spirit  could  be  heard  sobbing 
and  moaning.  For  more  than  forty  years  the 
place  had  been  considered  cursed,  and  had  been 
steadfastly  avoided.  Even  the  contents  of  the 
cottage  had  remained  untouched. 

Peter  had  ventured  a  word  of  pity  for  the  deso- 
late creature  whose  story  he  had  just  heard.  But 
pity  was,  apparently,  the  last  emotion  roused  to- 
wards her.  Horror  of  her  sin  and  degradation,  a 


42  The  Peacock  Feather 

horror  enhanced  by  the  superstition  vivid  around 
her  memory,  was  all  the  buxom  postmistress  felt. 
And  should  any  one  be  wickedly  daring  enough 
to  enter  the  cottage  and  live  there — well,  the  curse 
of  evil  would  undoubtedly  fall  upon  him,  though 
assuredly  no  one  would  interfere  should  any  one 
prove  himself  a  sufficient  friend  of  evil  for  such  a 
venture. 

So  much  had  Peter  gathered  regarding  the 
cottage  and  its  story.  He  had  then  put  an- 
other question  regarding  the  white  house  on 
the  hill. 

It  belonged,  so  he  was  told,  to  a  Lady  Anne 
Garland,  who  lived  there  with  a  companion.  At 
the  moment  she  was  away  from  home,  though  she 
was  expected  to  return  in  June.  And  then  the 
other  customer  had  entered  the  shop,  and  the 
flood  of  the  good  woman's  discourse  had  been 
stemmed. 

Peter  had  reached  the  copse  by  now  and  turned 
in  at  the  broken  gate.  As  he  entered  the  cottage 
it  seemed  to  him  that  there  was  an  air  of  expect- 
ancy about  the  place,  as  if  it  was  waiting  for  the 
answer  to  a  question. 

Involuntarily  Peter  spoke  aloud. 


Peter  Takes  a  Residence  43 

"It's  all  right,"  he  said.  "I  am  going  to  stay 
till  some  one  comes  to  kick  me  out." 

And  then— of  course  it  was  mere  fancy,  but  a 
little  breeze  seemed  to  pass  through  the  room, 
like  a  sigh  of  relief  or  content. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  SOUL  OF  A  WOMAN 

THUS  Peter  entered  upon  his  estate,  since  there 
was  evidently  no  man  would  say  him  nay.  He, 
the  wayfarer,  who  for  two  years  had  slept  by  the 
hedge-side  or  in  barns,  found  himself  possessed 
of  a  castle. 

It  might  be  conjectured  whether  he  would  find 
the  change  cramping,  stifling.  He  did  not.  The 
windows,  which  he  mended,  he  set  wide  open  to  the 
sun  and  wind.  Big  fires  of  sticks  and  fir-cones 
aired  and  freed  the  place  from  the  odour  of  damp 
and  decay  that  hung  about  it.  He  took  the 
precaution  of  buying  a  couple  of  blankets  and 
a  mattress.  Also,  as  he  was  once  more  to  be- 
come a  civilized  being,  at  all  events  in  his  own 
eyes,  he  bought  three  suits  of  the  garments  called 
pyjamas. 

They  pleased  Peter  enormously.    Blue,  pink,  and 

44 


The  Soul  of  a  Woman  45 

green,  he  placed  them  on  the  table  and  looked  at 
them.  They  told  him  as  plainly  as  their  flannel 
tongues  could  speak  that  he  had  returned  to 
his  birthright.  He  had  purchased  them  in  the 
market  town  already  mentioned,  which  lay  some 
eight  miles  distant  from  the  cottage,  and  the 
purchase  had  been  made  with  an  air  of  swagger. 
Piping  had  proved  a  not  unremunerative  occupa- 
tion. There  was  now,  however,  another  source 
of  income.  Certainly  the  income  would  not  be 
large  at  present,  but  it  well  sufficed.  Peter  would 
therefore  pipe  no  longer  for  pay,  but  merely  for 
pleasure. 

He  had  also  laid  in  a  store  of  fair  foolscap  paper 
and  a  large  bottle  of  ink.  The  joy  of  creation  had 
taken  possession  of  him.  His  brain  was  again 
fertile.  It  was  partly  on  this  account  that  he  had 
been  ready  to  take  up  a  fixed  abode,  since  fate  had 
flung  one  in  his  path.  He  owed  it  to  the  children 
of  his  brain  to  give  them  every  chance,  though  his 
first  child  had  been  brought  forth  amidst  difficul- 
ties and  hardships. 

The  news  that  a  stranger,  wearing  a  peacock 
feather  in  his  hat,  had  taken  up  his  abode  in  the 
cottage  of  ill-omen  spread  like  wild-fire  through 


46  The  Peacock  Feather 

the  village.  Women  glanced  at  him  with  fright- 
ened eyes,  men  regarded  him  with  suspicion.  The 
owner  of  the  provision  shop,  indeed,  held  a  kind 
of  neutral  ground.  Until  it  should  be  proved  that 
Peter's  shillings  were  accursed,  he  might  as  well 
have  the  advantage  of  them. 

The  children  looked  at  Peter  with  awe,  mingled 
with  curiosity.  There  was  a  kind  of  fearful  joy 
in  watching  one  who  was  a  friend  of  that  terrible 
personage  the  Devil.  At  night,  truly,  he  was  to  be 
avoided,  but  in  daylight,  with  his  bronzed  face  and 
brilliant  peacock  feather,  he  looked  not  unpre- 
possessing. 

Moreover,  he  could  pipe.  Wee  Rob,  the  miller's 
lame  son,  had  first  heard  him,  and  had  called  to 
the  other  children.  There  had  been  a  reconnoi- 
tring party  down  the  lane.  On  tiptoe  feet,  breath 
suspended,  eyes  round  with  awe,  they  had  gone. 
Through  the  bushes  they  had  seen  him  at  the 
cottage  door,  the  pipe  at  his  lips.  And  the  music 
had  been  full  of  they  knew  not  what  of  magic, 
joy  and  gladness.  With  parted  lips  and  eyes  full 
of  childish  wonder  they  had  listened.  Fear  had 
vanished  to  the  four  winds  of  heaven,  blown  far 
far  away  by  the  sweet  notes  of  the  pipe. 


The  Soul  of  a  Woman  47 

And  then  Peter  had  stopped  and  moved. 
There  had  been  the  scuttling  of  little  feet  and  the 
tapping  of  a  crutch.  But  the  tapping  of  the  crutch 
had  been  reluctant  in  its  retreat,  for  the  magic  of 
the  piping  lingered  with  Wee  Rob. 

By  day,  then,  Peter  wrote  in  his  cottage,  piped 
his  tunes,  or  walked  the  moorland  above  the 
village.  By  night  he  slept  and  dreamt  of  the  book 
he  was  writing,  though  often  through  his  dreams 
he  fancied  he  heard  the  sound  of  that  pitiful 
sobbing. 

In  his  waking  moments  he  told  himself  it  was 
fancy  pure  and  simple,  yet  it  troubled  him.  What 
if  there  were  indeed  an  imprisoned  soul  somewhere 
seeking  aid,  one  for  whom  no  man  had  said  an 
individual  prayer?  Peter  had  no  very  definite 
creed.  There  lingered  with  him  certain  faint 
memories  of  lessons  taught  him  by  his  mother,  of 
which  the  little  prayer  he  had  prayed  the  first 
night  in  the  cottage  was  one.  Beyond  that  all 
was  indefinite,  vague.  Somewhere  external  to  this 
world  were  unseen  Powers,  some  great  Force,  a 
Strength  to  whom  men  appealed  under  the  name 
of  God.  The  supernatural,  however,  had,  or 
appeared  to  have,  no  very  distinct  individual 


48  The  Peacock  Feather 

relation  towards  himself.  He  had  certainly  prayed 
when  he  was  in  the  prison.  Human  aid  being 
powerless  to  "put  things  right"  (he  formulated 
his  ideas  no  more  than  that),  he  had  appealed 
to  this  External  Power.  He  had  found  a  certain 
comfort  in  it.  He  acknowledged  its  might,  its 
capacity  to  do  so.  Having  prayed,  he  felt  sure  of 
the  answer.  His  attitude  towards  the  Powers  was 
friendly.  There  is  no  other  word  which  will  as 
well  describe  his  attitude  of  mind.  Surely,  then, 
he  had  a  right  to  expect  a  friendly  reply.  And 
then  the  reply  had  come.  For  a  time  Peter  had 
been  stunned.  It  had  been  so  entirely  unexpected. 
He  felt  almost  as  a  man  would  feel  who  had  re- 
ceived a  blow  from  one  from  whom  he  had  a  right 
to  expect  a  handshake.  A  curious  bitterness  was 
his  first  predominant  sensation.  This  did  not  last, 
however.  Peter  was  too  innately  sweet-natured 
to  harbour  bitterness  long,  even  against  those 
vague  external  Powers  of  which  he  knew  so  little. 
A  nonchalant  philosophy  took  its  place.  They 
had  failed  him,  therefore  he  must  turn  elsewhere 
for  aid;  he  must  turn  to  the  visible  means  around 
him,  the  things  of  nature,  the  sunshine,  the  trees, 
the  flowers,  the  birds.  In  short,  the  recuperative 


The  Soul  of  a  Woman  49 

power  of  his  own  healthy  nature  sustained  him, 
since  the  Powers  to  whom  he  had  turned  seemed 
to  have  failed.  And  yet  he  did  not  deny  their 
existence.  Only  it  would  appear  that  their  atti- 
tude towards  him  individually  was  not  what  he 
had  imagined  it  to  be.  Now,  however,  vaguely, 
indefinitely,  he  began  to  wonder  whether  their 
aid  could  not  be  invoked  again,  not  for  himself, 
but  for  another,  the  soul  of  the  woman  whose 
fancied  sobbing  troubled  his  dreams.  He  told 
himself,  as  already  stated,  that  the  sobbing  was 
pure  fancy,  the  outcome  of  the  pitiful  story  he  had 
heard,  his  own  imagination,  and  certain  faint 
memories  of  his  mother's  teaching  regarding  souls 
in  purgatory.  Solitude  no  doubt  coloured  these 
memories,  rendered  him  possibly  slightly  morbid 
regarding  them.  Yet  the  fancy  was  strong  upon 
him  that  he,  in  that  place  where  the  soul  of 
the  woman  had  left  her  body,  might  in  some 
way  aid.  Yet  how?  There  was  the  crux  of  the 
question. 

And  then  Peter  bethought  him  of  a  friend  of  his, 
one  whose  creed,  though  he  himself  had  inquired 
little  regarding  it,  he  knew  to  be  clear-cut,  defined. 
Perhaps,  Peter  told  himself,  his  own  prayers  were 

4 


50  The  Peacock  Feather 

too  vague,  too  nebulous.  For  himself  he  was 
content,  or  at  least  sufficiently  passive  now,  to 
let  things  remain  as  they  were.  For  himself,  his 
prayer  had  failed;  he  would  not  be  cowardly 
enough  to  whine,  or  recriminate.  It  was  just 
possible  that  even  the  failure  belonged  to  some 
Great  Plan  of  which  he  did  not  see  the  outcome. 
He  perceived  in  the  same  nebulous  way  that  if 
this  were  the  case  rebellion  would  be  not  only 
cowardly,  but  futile.  Yet  while  remaining  passive 
for  himself,  something  within  him  stirred  him 
to  action  for  another.  He  had  heard  his  friend 
speak  of  masses  for  souls  in  purgatory.  It  con- 
veyed nothing  very  definite  to  Peter's  mind,  yet 
he  felt  that  if  there  were  some  method  of  aiding 
this  soul  his  friend  would  know  of  it. 

Accordingly  Peter  wrote  a  letter.  He  gave  no 
address;  he  merely  wrote  stating  the  facts  of  the 
case,  and  asking  aid.  After  that  he  waited. 

Now  again  he  was  perfectly  aware  that  the  whole 
thing  might  have  been  pure  fancy,  but  one  day 
Peter  became  conscious  of  a  change  of  atmosphere 
in  the  cottage.  A  repose,  a  peace,  hitherto  foreign 
seemed  to  have  descended  upon  it.  When  pre- 
cisely the  change  occurred  Peter  did  not  know,  he 


merely  suddenly  became  conscious  that  the  change 
was  there. 

Of  course  it  might  have  been  pure  fancy,  but 
Peter  did  not  think  it  was. 


CHAPTER  VI 

AN  OLD  GENERAL 


GENERAL  GARDEN,  V.C.,  C.B.,  D.S.O.,  was  sit- 
ting at  breakfast  in  his  house  in  Sloane  Street. 
He  was  not  a  young  man — in  fact,  he  had  just 
passed  his  seventy-seventh  birthday — but  there 
was  about  him  an  air  of  trim  spruceness,  an  up- 
rightness that  many  a  younger  man  might  have 
envied.  His  height  in  his  stockinged  feet  was 
exactly  six  feet  one.  He  was  handsome,  too,  with 
his  fine  aquiline  features,  his  snow-white  hair,  and 
his  drooping  moustache.  His  blue  eyes,  under 
shaggy  eyebrows,  were  perhaps  a  trifle  faded  from 
the  colour  of  their  youth,  yet  they  struck  a  very 
decided  note  in  contrast  to  his  face,  which  was 
like  old  ivory,  and  to  the  pallor  of  his  hair. 

A  little  pile  of  letters  lay  on  the  table  beside 
him,  also  a  small  silver  paper-knife.     Ten  minutes 

52 


An  Old  General  53 

previously  he  had  cut  the  envelopes  with  care- 
ful precision  and  glanced  through  the  contents. 
Apparently  he  had  found  in  them  little  of  interest, 
and  now  his  attention  was  entirely  absorbed  by  a 
couple  of  frizzled  rolls  of  bacon  on  the  plate  before 
him. 

The  door  opened  noiselessly  and  the  butler 
entered.  He  carried  a  tray  on  which  was  a  plate, 
and  on  the  plate  was  a  small  brown  egg  in  a  silver 
egg-cup.  General  Garden  was  somewhat  parti- 
cular as  to  the  size  and  colour  of  the  eggs  of  which 
he  partook.  The  butler  placed  the  plate  on  the 
table,  then  stood  in  an  attitude  suggestive  of 
military  attention. 

"Any  orders  for  the  car,  sir?  Alcott  is  here, 
sir." 

"The  car  at  eleven,"  said  General  Garden,  still 
busy  with  the  bacon.  "And,  Goring,  see  that 
those  library  books  are  put  in. " 

"Very  good,  sir.     Is  that  all,  sir?" 

"Yes;  nothing  else. " 

The  butler  withdrew,  and  General  Garden 
continued  his  breakfast.  Marmalade  and  a 
second  cup  of  coffee  followed  the  egg.  General 
Garden  made  a  good  deal  of  the  fact  that  he 


54  The  Peacock  Feather 

enjoyed  his  breakfast.  It  was  to  him  a  sign 
that  old  age  was  not  yet  encroaching. 

Breakfast  over,  he  crossed  the  hall  to  a  small 
study,  where  he  took  a  cigarette  from  a  silver 
box  and  lighted  it.  Then  he  sat  down  in  a  chair 
near  the  window  with  the  morning  paper.  It 
seldom  afforded  him  much  satisfaction,  however. 
England,  in  his  opinion,  was  going  to  the  dogs,  and 
it  only  annoyed  him  to  see  the  printed  record  of  its 
progress  towards  that  deplorable  end. 

After  a  few  moments  he  threw  the  paper  from 
him  with  a  faintly  muttered  "Damn  it,  sir!" 
He  had  seen  that  in  a  by-election  a  seat  had  been 
won  by  one  of  the  Labour  party. 

"Going  to  the  dogs,  sir;  entirely  to  the  dogs!" 
he  muttered.  And  then  he  looked  out  of  the 
window  at  the  people  in  the  street,  which  street 
was  bathed  in  May  sunshine. 

The  gardens  opposite  looked  extraordinarily 
green  and  spring-like,  and  nurses  with  peram- 
bulators and  children  of  various  sizes  were  passing 
along  the  pavement  by  the  iron  railings.  They 
and  the  sunshine  struck  a  very  definite  note  of 
buoyancy  and  youth,  and  for  a  moment  General 
Garden  felt  not  entirely  as  young  as  he  could  wish. 


An  Old  General  55 

The  room  seemed  a  little  lonely,  and  the  house 
rather  large  for  one  occupant — servants,  naturally, 
did  not  count.  General  Garden  did  not  exactly 
express  this  thought  to  his  mind  in  words.  He  was 
not  a  man  given  to  sentimentality  either  in  thought 
or  speech.  It  was  merely  represented  by  a  little 
indefinite  and  not  very  pleasant  impression.  He 
wheeled  his  chair  round  to  his  writing-desk,  which 
he  unlocked,  and  began  looking  through  various 
letters  with  a  show  of  businesslike  energy. 

Some  half -hour  or  so  later  he  appeared  in  the 
hall.  The  butler  was  there  already  with  an  over- 
coat, a  silk  hat,  and  an  air  of  reserved  dignity. 
He  put  General  Garden  into  the  overcoat  and 
handed  him  the  hat. 

"Have  you  put  the  books  in  the  car?"  asked 
General  Garden. 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Goring.  There  was  the 
faintest  suspicion  of  reproof  in  the  reply. 

"Ah!  yes,  of  course,  of  course;  I  mentioned~it 
at  breakfast. "  General  Garden  took  up  his  gloves 
and  passed  into  the  sunshine  down  the  steps,  an 
upright  figure  in  grey  overcoat,  white  spats,  and 
hat  shining  glossily  in  the  light. 


56  The  Peacock  Feather 

"Good  morning,  Alcott;  the  car  running  well?" 

"First  rate,  sir." 

"That's  right;  that's  right.  You  can  take  a 
turn  in  the  Park  and  afterwards  go  to  Mudie's." 

"Very  good,  sir." 

General  Garden  got  in,  and  the  car  purred 
gently  up  the  street. 

He  settled  himself  comfortably  into  a  corner, 
and  glanced  at  the  books  on  the  seat  opposite 
to  him.  He  had  a  subscription  at  Mudie's,  and 
kept  himself  thoroughly  up  in  the  present-day 
novel.  He  did  not  care  to  hear  a  new  book 
mentioned  and  have  to  allow  that  he  had  not  read 
it.  Of  course,  the  present-day  literature  could 
not  compare  with  that  of  the  older  novelists — 
that  was  hardly  to  be  expected.  Scott,  Dickens, 
Thackeray — he  ran  through  them  in  his  mind — 
where  was  the  writer  of  the  moment  who  could 
compare  with  them?  Who  could  touch  the  ro- 
mance of  Scott,  the  humour  of  Dickens,  the  court- 
liness of  Thackeray?  Where  was  there  a  man  in 
present  fiction  able  to  stand  beside  the  fine 
old  figure  of  General  Newcome?  No;  romance, 
humour,  courtliness,  had  vanished,  and  in  their 
place  were  divorce  accounts,  ragging — an  appalling 


An  Old  General  57 

word, — and  suffragettes.  The  world  was  not  what 
it  had  been  in  his  young  days.  He  did  not,  how- 
ever, express  this  opinion  blatantly;  to  do  so 
would  have  savoured  of  old-fogyism.  Oh,  no; 
he  flattered  himself  he  kept  abreast  of  the  times, 
and  only  deplored  certain  modern  innovations, 
as  they  were  deplored  by  all  those  who  still  held 
to  the  fragments  of  refinement  and  courtliness 
that  remained  in  the  world. 

As  the  car  turned  into  the  Park,  General  Garden 
sat  rather  more  upright.  He  watched  the  car- 
riages and  their  occupants  with  attention,  his  old 
eyes  keen  to  observe  and  note  any  of  them  he  knew. 
And  when  he  did,  off  came  that  glossy  silk  hat  with 
a  bow  and  a  gesture  worthy  of  a  courtier.  How- 
ever much  abreast  of  the  times  he  might  choose  to 
consider  himself,  in  his  heart  he  knew  he  was  of 
the  old  school,  and  one  even  older  than  that  of  his 
own  youth.  He  belonged,  this  courtly  old  man, 
to  the  delightful  old  school  where  men  treated 
women  with  chivalry  and  protection,  and  where 
women  in  their  turn  accepted  these  things  with 
delicate  grace  and  charm;  where  conversation 
had  meant  a  pretty  display  of  wit,  a  keen  fencing 
of  words,  where  brusquerie  was  a  thing  unknown; 


58  The  Peacock  Feather 

and  where  a  fine  and  subtle  irony  had  stood  in  the 
place  of  a  certain  curt  rudeness  noticeable  in  the 
present  day.  Yet  all  that  was  of  the  past.  It 
would  be  as  out  of  place  now  as  would  be  one  of 
those  dainty  ladies  of  old  years,  in  powder  and 
brocade,  among  the  tight-skirted  women  in  Bond 
Street.  But  very  deep  down  in  his  heart  General 
Garden  knew  it  was  the  school  which  he  loved, 
and  of  which  he  allowed  himself  occasionally  to 
dream.  Those  dreams  were  dreamt  mainly  on 
winter  evenings  in  a  chair  before  the  study  fire. 
And  then,  very  surreptitiously,  General  Garden 
would  bring  a  tiny  gold  box  from  his  pocket — a 
dainty  octagon  box  with  an  exquisite  bit  of  old 
enamel,  blue  as  a  sapphire,  let  into  the  lid — and, 
opening  it,  he  would  take  an  infinitesimal  pinch  of 
brown  powder  between  his  first  finger  and  thumb. 
He  was  always  most  extremely  careful  that  no 
single  grain  of  it  should  fall  on  his  white  shirt-front. 
Goring's  eyes  were  at  times  unaccountably  sharp. 
He  was  not  going  to  be  caught  snuff-taking  by  a 
man  who  might  look  upon  it  as  a  sign  of  old  age 
advancing.  The  little  gold  box,  when  not  on  his 
own  person,  was  kept  locked  in  a  small  antique 
cabinet  in  his  dressing-room. 


An  Old  General  59 

Apparently  there  were  many  people  in  the  Park 
that  morning  whom  General  Garden  knew.  A  big 
car  hummed  past  with  a  small  woman  in  it,  a 
woman  who  looked  almost  tiny  in  the  car's  capa- 
cious depths.  She  had  a  pointed  little  face  and 
masses  of  fair  hair.  Off  came  General  Garden's 
hat.  This  was  Muriel  Lancing.  He  had  known 
her  as  Muriel  Grey,  when  she  was  a  small  girl  in 
short  skirts.  She  had  married  a  certain  Tommy 
Lancing  a  refreshing  young  man  with  red  hair  and 
freckles  and  a  comfortable  private  income.  Gen- 
eral Garden's  eyes  smiled  at  the  girl.  In  spite  of 
a  certain  airy  up-to-dateness,  he  liked  her.  She 
was  so  dainty,  so  piquante,  and  such  an  inscrutable 
mixture  of  child,  woman  of  the  world,  and  elfin. 
One  never  knew  which  of  the  three  might  not 
appear  on  the  surface.  Also  he  liked  Tommy,  who 
always  contrived  to  put  a  certain  air  of  deference 
into  his  manner  towards  the  General,  which 
secretly  pleased  that  critical  white-haired  old 
veteran  immensely. 

After  a  few  moments  he  saw  another  of  his 
friends,  and  again  the  hat  came  off,  this  time 
with  perhaps  even  something  more  of  courtliness. 
The  woman  in  the  victoria  was  very  nearly  a  con- 


60  The  Peacock  Feather 

temporary  of  his.  Quite  a  contemporary,  General 
Garden  reflected — ignoring  the  fifteen  years  which 
lay  between  them,  and  which  were,  it  must  be 
stated,  to  the  advantage  of  Mrs.  Cresswell.  She 
was  a  woman  with  white  hair  rolled  high,  some- 
what after  the  style  of  a  Gainsborough  portrait, 
and  a  clear-cut  aristocratic  face.  She  belonged 
unquestionably  to  his  school,  and  their  conversa- 
tions were  an  invariable  delicate  sword-play  of 
words.  Even  if  she  were  generally  the  victor — 
and  in  the  art  of  conversation  he  was  willing  to 
concede  her  the  palm — yet  he  flattered  himself  he 
was  no  mean  opponent,  and  he  had  a  pleasurable 
memory  of  some  very  pretty  turns  of  repartee  on 
his  own  part.  She  was  a  friend  of  long  standing, 
and  one  he  valued. 

Next  came  a  much  younger  woman  in  a  car, 
with  a  small  boy  beside  her.  This  was  Millicent 
Sheldon;  the  boy  was  her  nephew.  General 
Garden's  blue  eyes  were  a  little  hard  as  he  observed 
her,  and  there  was  just  a  suspicion  of  stiffness  in 
his  arm  as  he  raised  his  hat.  She  responded  with 
a  slightly  frigid  bow,  her  face  entirely  immovable. 
There  were  reasons — most  excellently  good  reasons 
— why  there  was  a  certain  chilliness  between  these 


An  Old  General  61 

two.  They  need  not,  however,  be  recorded  at 
the  moment. 

Many  other  carriages  and  cars  passed  whose 
occupants  General  Garden  knew,  also  a  few  foot- 
passengers,  grey-haired  veterans  like  himself, 
who  walked  upright  and  rather  stiff,  or  younger 
men  slightly  insouciant  of  manner. 

As  his  car  was  turning  out  of  the  Park  another 
carriage  turned  in.  In  it  was  a  young  woman  and 
an  older  one — much  older;  in  fact,  rather  dried 
up  and  weather-beaten.  This  time  General  Garden 
did  not  raise  his  hat,  though  he  observed  the  two 
women  with  interest.  He  had  frequently  noticed 
the  carriage  and  its  occupants  during  his  morning 
drives  in  the  Park.  The  younger  woman  attracted 
him.  It  was  not  merely  the  fact  that  she  was 
beautiful,  but  there  was  an  air  of  distinction  about 
her,  a  well-bred  distinguished  air,  that  appealed 
to  this  old  critic  of  women  and  manners.  The  men 
on  the  box  wore  cockades  in  their  hats  and  plum- 
coloured  livery.  There  was  also  a  tiny  coronet  on 
the  panel  of  the  carriage  door.  In  spite  of  the  fact 
that  General  Garden's  sight  was  not  entirely  what 
it  once  had  been,  he  noticed  the  coronet.  He 
noticed,  too,  that  the  woman's  hair  was  black  with 


62  The  Peacock  Feather 

blue  lights  in  it,  that  her  skin  was  a  pale  cream, 
and  her  mouth  a  delicious  and  quite  natural  scarlet ; 
also  that  her  small  well-bred  head  was  exquisitely 
set  on  a  slender  but  young  and  rounded  throat, 
and  that  it,  in  its  turn,  was  set  quite  delightfully 
between  her  shoulders.  There  is  no  gainsaying 
the  fact  that  General  Garden  was  a  very  distinct 
connoisseur  in  matters  feminine.  He  wondered 
who  she  was,  and  even  after  the  carriage  had 
passed  he  thought  of  her  very  finished  appearance 
with  pleasure.  And  it  was  by  no  means  the  first 
time  that  he  had  wondered,  nor  the  first  that  he 
had  experienced  the  feeling  of  pleasure  at  the  sight 
of  her. 

In  two  or  three  minutes,  so  swift  are  the  ways 
of  cars,  he  was  stopping  opposite  Mudie's  in 
Kensington  High  Street.  A  carriage  with  a  pair 
of  bay  horses  was  waiting  beyond  the  broad 
pavement  outside  the  shop.  General  Garden 
recognized  it  as  belonging  to  Mrs.  Cresswell. 
Evidently  she  had  left  the  Park  before  him. 

He  got  out  of  the  car  and  crossed  the  pavement 
to  the  shop.  Mrs.  Cresswell  was  also  changing 
library  books.  She  saw  him  approaching  and 
gave  him  a  smile — a  smile  at  once  brilliant,  gay, 


An  Old  General  63 

and  charmingly  intimate,  as  was  the  privilege  of 
an  old  friend. 

"So  we  meet  again,"  she  said  in  her  crisp, 
pleasantly  decided  voice,  and  she  held  out  her 
hand.  "And  how  are  you  this  fine  May 
morning?  " 

"In  most  excellent  health,  thank  you,"  replied 
General  Garden,  taking  the  hand  held  out  to  him. 
"There  is  no  need  for  me  to  ask  how  you  are. 
You  look,  as  you  always  do,  radiant. "  He  accom- 
panied the  words  with  a  gesture  almost  suggestive 
of  a  bow. 

"How  charming  of  you!"  sighed  Mrs.  Cresswell, 
a  little  laugh  in  her  eyes.  "I  always  feel  at  least 
ten  years  younger  when  I  meet  you.  And  you  are 
on  the  same  errand  bent  as  I.  Well,  here  is  one 
book  I  can  certainly  recommend.  I  am  just 
returning  it  myself.  It  is  by  a  new  author,  and 
is  quite  delightful — finished,  light,  and  with  a 
style  all  its  own."  She  held  up  a  green-covered 
book  as  she  spoke,  and  General  Garden  read 
the  gold-lettered  title,  Under  the  Span  of  the 
Rainbow. 

Now,  to  be  perfectly  candid,  the  title  did  not 
appeal  to  him  who  read  it.  In  General  Garden's 


64  The  Peacock  Feather 

mind  it  suggested  fairy-tales — light,  airy,  soap- 
bubbly  things,  iridescent  and  pretty  enough  for 
the  moment,  but  quite  unable  to  withstand  the 
finger  of  criticism  he  would  inevitably  lay  upon 
them.  Yet  the  book  was  recommended  by  a 
woman,  and  that  woman  Mrs.  Cresswell. 

"Any  recommendation  of  yours!"  said  General 
Garden  gallantly.  And  he  put  the  book  aside 
while  he  looked  for  a  second  one. 

A  young  shopman  made  various  deferential 
suggestions,  and  presently  Mrs.  Cresswell  and 
General  Garden  were  out  again  in  the  sunshine, 
General  Garden  bearing  four  library  books. 

"I  shall  expect  to  hear  what  you  think  of  my 
recommendation,"  said  Mrs.  Cresswell,  as  he 
handed  her  to  her  carriage  and  placed  two  of  the 
books  on  the  seat  beside  her.  Her  voice  held 
perhaps  the  faintest  intonation  of  significance. 
"Come  and  see  me  next  Tuesday;  I  am  at  home, 
you  know. " 

"With  all  the  pleasure  in  the  world,"  replied 
General  Garden. 

And  then  she  gave  him  another  of  her  gracious 
smiles  as  the  bays  moved  off  down  the  sunny 
street. 


An  Old  General  65 

ii 

It  was  not  till  after  dinner  that  night  that  Gen- 
eral Garden  opened  the  book.  He  was  then  sitting 
in  a  large  and  comfortable  arm-chair  in  his  study. 
A  shaded  electric  lamp  stood  on  a  table  at  his 
elbow,  and  he  was  experiencing  the  sense  of  well- 
being  of  a  man  who  has  just  partaken  of  a  most 
excellently  cooked  dinner. 

He  fixed  his  gold-rimmed  glasses  on  his  finely 
chiselled  nose  and  opened  the  book,  though  with 
but  faint  anticipation  of  interest.  After  a  page  or 
two,  however,  he  became  absorbed,  almost  fascin- 
ated. The  writing  appealed  to  him;  it  was  pleas- 
ant, cultured.  There  were  here  and  there  some 
very  neatly  turned  phrases.  And  then,  quite  sud- 
denly, one  paragraph  arrested  his  attention.  It 
was  in  itself  a  quite  insignificant  little  paragraph 
and  merely  descriptive.  Here  it  is,  however: 

"Near  one  corner  of  the  house,  grey- walled, 
weather-beaten,  stood  a  great  pear-tree,  its 
branches  almost  touching  the  diamond-shaped 
panes  of  the  narrow  window — the  window  of  the 
octagon  room  which  held  for  him  so  many  mem- 
ories. In  spring-time  the  tree  was  a  mass  of 

5 


66 


snowy  blossoms,  and  among  their  delicate  fragrance 
a  blackbird  sang  his  daily  matins.  Later  in  the 
year  the  tree  would  be  full  of  fruit,  many  of  which 
fell  to  the  ground,  and,  bruising  in  the  fall,  would 
fill  the  air  with  a  sweet  and  almost  sickly  scent.  In 
the  trunk  of  the  tree  was  a  small  shield-shaped 
patch,  where  the  bark  had  been  torn  away,  and 
the  initials  R.  and  J.  cut  in  the  smooth  underwood. 
They  belonged,  so  the  boy  had  been  told,  to  the 
twin  brothers,  whose  gallant  history  had  fascinated 
him  from  childhood." 

General  Garden  paused.  There  was  a  look 
of  dim  pain  in  his  blue  eyes.  After  a  moment  he 
re-read  the  passage  carefully,  and  with  infinitely 
more  attention  than  the  few  sentences  would 
appear  to  merit.  Then  he  turned  to  the  title- 
page  and  read  the  name  of  the  author.  Appar- 
ently it  told  him  nothing  he  desired  to  know,  and 
he  continued  his  reading.  Much  farther  on  he 
came  to  another  paragraph  at  which  he  again 
paused  abruptly. T 

"'Cricket,'  said  the  young  man  airily,  'is  a 
universal  game,  and  means,  speaking  in  general 
terms,  the  avoidance  of  anything  which — well, 
hints  of  meanness  or  unfair  play  to  our  neighbours.  ' 


An  Old  General  67 

They  were  his  father's  exact  words,  and  he  knew 
it.  At  the  moment,  however,  he  chose  to  make 
them  his  own." 

General  Garden  put  down  the  book.  His  hands 
were  shaking  slightly.  He  told  himself  he  was  an 
old  fool.  Hundreds  of  fathers  had  used  those 
words  to  their  sons.  They  represented  the  first 
principle  learnt  by  an  Englishman.  But  then, 
there  was  the  pear-tree,  the  shield-shaped  wound 
in  its  bark,  the  initials,  the  old  weather-beaten 
house.  Memory  began  to  exert  her  sway.  He 
was  sitting  in  a  study  window  watching  a  tall, 
slim  woman  as  she  laughed  at  a  thin  slip  of  a  boy 
climbing,  monkey-like,  among  the  branches  of  the 
old  tree.  He  could  hear  the  very  sound  of  her 
laugh  and  the  exultant  ring  of  the  boy's  voice. 

He  pulled  himself  together.  That  house — the 
old  place  down  in  the  country — was  in  the  hands 
of  caretakers.  It  did  not  do  to  think  about  the 
past  at  his  time  of  life.  He  was  certainly  per- 
turbed to  use  that  phrase.  He  turned  to  the  ad- 
dress of  the  publishers,  then  glanced  at  the 
telephone  on  his  writing-desk  and  from  it  to  the 
clock.  The  hands  pointed  to  ten  minutes  to  ten. 
Of  course,  it  was  too  late  to  ring  up  a  business 


68  The  Peacock  Feather 

house,  much  too  late.  Besides,  pseudonyms  were 
sacred  to  publishers,  or  should  be.  Quite  possi- 
bly, too,  it  was  not  a  pseudonym.  It  was  absurd 
that  he  should  suppose  that  it  was.  It  was  a  good 
book,  however,  a  very  good  book.  He  should  like 
to  see  what  the  reviews  had  to  say  about  it.  It 
was  always  interesting  to  hear  public  opinion  on  a 
good  book;  and,  to  a  certain  extent,  reviewers 
constituted  the  public.  There  were  places — he 
had  heard  of  them — where  reviews  were  collected. 
He  must  find  out  the  name  of  one  of  them.  Yes; 
he  would  like  to  see  whether  the  reviewers  did  not 
endorse  his  own  opinion.  He  would  tell  Mrs. 
Cresswell  he  had  appreciated  her  recommendation. 
Possibly  he  would  write  a  note  to-morrow  and  tell 
her.  It  would  please  her  to  hear  that  he  had  liked 
the  book  she  had  advised  him  to  read. 

And  then  another  thought  struck  him,  and  he 
sat  suddenly  upright.  Had  not  she  once  seen 
that  pear-tree — once,  long  ago?  Surely  she,  too, 
did  not  think — did  not  guess 

He  would  not  write  to  her  after  all.  Tuesday 
would  be  time  enough  to  tell  her  that  he  thought 
the  book — yes,  quite  fairly  promising  for  a  new 
author.  Fairly  promising,  that  was  the  expression. 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  WONDERFUL  OFFER 

LATE  one  afternoon  Peter  set  off  to  walk  to  the 
market-town.  He  was  expecting  a  letter  from  his 
publishers.  He  had  given  them  the  market -town 
post-office  as  his  permanent  address.  It  was  a 
glorious  day,  and  the  sunlight  lay  warmly  on  the 
fields. 

During  the  day  he  had  been  writing,  but  his 
work  had  not  gone  well.  That  which  in  brain- 
imagery  had  seemed  original  and  lifelike,  in 
articulation  appeared  to  him  commonplace  and 
dull.  Who  would  care  to  read  the  drivel  he  was 
committing  to  paper?  His  thoughts,  his  fancies, 
of  what  interest  would  they  be  to  the  multitude? 
Of  what  value  even  to  two  or  three? 

Peter  was  in  a  mood  dangerous  for  his  own  crea- 
tion. His  first  book  had  come  directly  from  his 
inner  being,  written  for  the  pure  love  of  inscribing 

69 


7o  The  Peacock  Feather 

in  lucid  words  the  thoughts  which  filled  his  brain. 
The  same  reason  had  urged  him  to  write  again. 
Then  suddenly  before  him  like  a  menace  rose  up 
an  image — the  Public.  His  work  would  go  out 
to  it,  had  already  gone  out  to  it.  How  would  it 
be  received?  And  if  with  smiles  the  first  moment, 
who  could  tell  whether  the  smiles  might  not  the 
next  be  changed  to  frowns? 

He  felt  like  a  man  whose  chance  witticism  has 
won  him  the  post  of  Jester.  What  anxiety  must 
precede  each  lightly  spoken  word  that  follows; 
the  knowledge  that  the  wings  of  spontaneity  had 
been  clipped,  though  the  knowledge  perchance  was 
his  alone;  the  inward  wince  at  a  rebuff,  the  joy 
at  applause!  Jester  to  the  many-faced  public! 
Was  this  to  be  his  r61e?  Truly,  if  a  little  know- 
ledge be  a  dangerous  thing,  a  little  success  appeared 
quite  as  dangerous.  Had  he  the  strength  to  forget 
his  audience;  to  speak  only  as  and  when  Inspira- 
tion bade  him ;  to  keep  silence  when  her  voice  was 
still?  If  indeed  he  had  to  play  the  part  of  Jester, 
could  he  be  a  daring  one,  heedless  alike  of  frowns 
and  smiles?  Could  he  risk  the  cap  and  bells 
being  taken  from  him?  Could  he  bear  hooting 
and  derision? 


A  Wonderful  Offer  71 

"I  will,"  cried  Peter  to  his  soul.  "I  will  jest 
how  and  as  I  please.  Servant  will  I  be  to  Inspira- 
tion alone,  and  slave  to  none.  Away  with 
cowardice,  Peter,  my  son,  and  dismiss  the  many- 
headed  public  from  your  mind." 

It  was  therefore  in  an  extremely  healthy  frame 
of  mind  that  Peter  approached  the  market- town. 

The  letter  he  had  expected  was  awaiting  him. 
He  put  it  in  his  pocket  unopened,  for  he  knew  it  to 
be  merely  a  business  communication  of  no  particu- 
lar importance,  and  set  off  once  more  for  home. 

It  was  not  till  after  his  supper  that  he  again 
thought  of  it,  and  he  pulled  it  carelessly  from  his 
pocket.  Within  the  envelope  was  the  type- 
written communication  he  had  expected,  and  also 
a  letter.  It  was  addressed  to  Robin  Adair,  Esq., 
care  of  the  publishers. 

Peter  turned  the  letter  over  curiously.  The 
post-mark  was  London,  the  writing  educated, 
delicately  firm.  He  broke  the  seal  and  drew  the 
letter  from  the  envelope.  Here  is  what  he  read: 

"LONDON, 

"May  i6th, 
"This  letter  can  have  no  formal  beginning, 


72  The  Peacock  Feather 

inasmuch  as  it  is  not  written  to  a  man,  but  to  a 
personality — the  personality  that  breathes  through 
the  book  signed  by  Robin  Adair.  Nor,  in  spite 
of  appearances,  is  it  a  letter  from  a  woman,  but 
from  a  personality  as  impersonal — if  the  contra- 
diction may  pass — as  that  to  which  it  is  addressed. 
"And  in  the  first  place  I  am  trusting  that  you — 
for  impersonal  as  one  may  wish  to  be,  one  cannot 
dispense  with  pronouns — that  you  are  possessed 
of  sufficient  intuition  to  discover  that  I  am  neither 
an  autograph-hunter  nor  one  desirous  of  snatching 
a  sensation  by  stolen  intercourse  with  a  celebrity. 
I  am  not  greatly  flattering  your  intuitive  powers 
therein;  for  nowhere  is  true  personality  so  inti- 
mately revealed  as  in  an  intimate  letter.  Art  can 
almost  invariably  be  detected,  and  there  is  no 
fleshly  mask  to  dazzle  the  perceptions  and  obscure 
the  soul.  An  intelligent  abstraction  from  a  letter 
would  probably  give  the  truest  image  of  the  sub- 
jective side  of  any  nature,  which  after  all  is  the 
side  with  which  as  an  individual  one  is  concerned. 
If,  therefore,  after  reading  thus  far,  you  are  dis- 
posed to  regard  this  letter  as  an  impertinence,  then 
it  is  one  which  is  entirely  without  excuse,  and  I 
should  desire  you  to  tear  it  up  forthwith. 


A  Wonderful  Offer  73 

"If,  on  the  other  hand,  you  have  preserved  an 
open  mind  so  far,  then  I  shall  not  attempt  excuse, 
but  furnish  you  with  reasons.  In  fancy  or  in 
reality  I  have  detected  in  your  book,  running 
through  its  sweetness  and  underlying  all  its 
strength,  a  great  heart-cry  for  sympathy,  the 
cry  of  a  lonely  soul.  What  it  is  that  has  wounded 
you  I  cannot  tell,  but  I  feel  in  every  fibre  that  the 
wound  is  there. 

"Now,  I  make  you  an  offer — one  of  intimate 
comradeship  with  one  of  another  sex,  under  con- 
ditions of  such  stringency  as  Plato's  self  might  have 
approved.  I  am  a  woman  whom  you  have  never 
seen,  whom  you  will  never  see,  of  gentle  birth, 
with  a  share  at  least  of  education  and  refinement, 
and,  moreover,  one  who  has  been  so  profoundly 
moved  and  influenced  by  your  writing  that  she 
feels  with  an  extraordinary  degree  of  confidence 
the  existence  of  a  mind-rapport  between  herself 
and  you. 

"For  the  moment  that  is  enough.  Should  you 
wish  to  accept  my  offer,  write  to  me  at  an  address 
I  shall  subjoin,  whence  the  letter  will  be  forwarded 
to  me.  On  your  side  the  compact  must  be  marked 
by  one  condition :  you  must  pledge  me  your  word 


74  The  Peacock  Feather 

never  to  make  any  attempt  to  discover  my  identity. 
"As  I  dislike  pseudonyms,  I  leave  this  letter 
unsigned." 

Peter  laid  the  letter  upon  the  table  and  stared 
at  it. 

"Amazing!"  he  ejaculated.  Then  he  took  it 
up  again.  It  was  written  on  bluish  paper,  and 
held  the  faintest — just  the  very  faintest — hint  of 
perfume,  lavender  delicately  fragrant. 

"And  a  woman,"  said  Peter,  "has  written  this 
letter  to  me — to  me! "  His  brain  whirled  slightly. 
There  is  no  other  description  for  its  state  at  that 
moment.  Gradually  it  steadied  itself.  He  be- 
gan to  realize  the  reality  of  what  had  happened. 
He  was  not  dreaming:  the  letter  was  actually  in 
his  hand,  the  words  traced  in  a  clear  and  fine 
writing. 

Impersonal,  indeed!  She — this  unknown  wo- 
man— might  call  it  so  if  she  pleased.  To  Peter 
it  breathed  personality,  a  personality  vivid  and 
rare.  Its  intimate  aloofness — again  a  contradic- 
tion— was  full  of  charm. 

An  autograph-hunter!  Bah!  had  the  merest 
suspicion  of  such  a  thought  crossed  his  mind  he 


A  Wonderful  Offer  75 

would  indeed  have  been  unworthy  so  much  as 
to  lay  a  finger  upon  the  epistle. 

To  say  that  Peter  was  touched  would  be  a  poor 
way  of  expressing  the  emotions  that  filled  him. 
For  years,  remember,  he  had  lived  in  mind-isolation 
from  his  fellow-men,  and  here  out  of  the  Invisible 
came  the  offer  of  a  soul-intimacy,  delicately, 
graciously  made,  and  made  by  a  woman. 

That  she  was  grande  dame  and  beautiful  his 
every  instinct  told  him.  There  was  an  undernote 
of  assurance  about  the  letter  that  made  the  fact 
convincing.  It  needed  not  her  statement  that 
she  was  of  gentle  birth.  Very  assuredly  she  was 
one  accustomed  to  deference  and  homage.  And 
she  had  written  thus  to  him.  Wonderful ! 

Peter  got  up  from  his  chair,  his  eyes  alight 
with  pleasure.  He  went  to  a  cupboard  and  took 
out  a  bottle  of  port  and  a  wine  glass.  These — 
like  the  pyjamas — constituted  part  of  the  hall-mark 
of  civilization. 

He  had  bought  the  wine  with  the  intention  of 
drinking  to  the  health  of  his  published  book, 
but  the  inclination  had  passed.  There  is  some- 
thing unsatisfactory  about  toasts  drunk  in  soli- 
tude. 


76  The  Peacock  Feather 

But  now  Peter  knocked  the  red  seal  from  the 
cork  and  drew  it  from  the  bottle.  He  reseated 
himself  at  the  table  and  poured  the  wine  into  the 
glass.  He  lifted  it  in  his  right  hand,  holding  the 
letter  in  his  left.  He  approached  the  glass  to 
the  letter,  then  raised  it  to  his  lips. 

"To  my  Unknown  Lady!"  he  said. 

Ten  minutes  later  Peter  pulled  pen,  ink,  and 
paper  towards  him.  Oh,  the  joy  of  answering 
this  letter,  the  luxury  of  it ! 

And  then  he  began  to  write,  very  simply  and 
directly,  attempting  no  well-turned  thought  or 
phrase,  but  writing  as  he  would  have  spoken,  from 
his  heart. 

"MayiSth. 

"Can  you,  I  wonder,  have  the  smallest  con- 
ception of  what  your  letter  means  to  me?  If 
you  have,  then  perhaps  you  will  realize  that  my 
'  thank  you '  holds  in  the  fullest  sense  all  that  those 
two  words  can  express.  Yet  please  believe  that 
the  cry  you  have  detected  in  my  writing  escaped 
from  me  unawares.  Consciously  to  have  made 
such  a  plaint  would  to  my  mind  have  savoured  of 
cowardice.  May  the  gods  guard  me  from  it! 

"Does  not  Emerson  say,  'It  is  vain  to  attempt 


77 


to  keep  a  secret  from  one  who  has  a  right  to  know 
it;  it  will  tell  itself?  Dare  I  believe  that  you 
possess  that  right,  that  the  same  spiritual  law 
which  has  made  you  conscious  of  a  mind-rapport 
between  us  has  given  you  the  key  to  it?  I  accept 
your  offer  from  my  heart.  The  condition  shall  be 
strictly  observed. 

"Truly  you  do  not  greatly  flatter  my  power  of 
intuition  when  you  imagine  me  possessed  of 
sufficient  intelligence  to  discover  that  you  are 
neither  an  autograph-hunter  nor  anything  akin 
to  it.  I  should  be  a  base  dullard  had  such  a 
thought  crossed  my  mind. 

"That  my  book  pleases  you  affords  me  intense 
pleasure.  Fresh  life  will  be  instilled  into  my  future 
work  by  the  hope  that  one  day  you  will  read  it. 

"My  pen  is  halting.  I  write  as  I  should  speak, 
and  my  tongue  is  unaccustomed  to  speech  with  a 
woman  of  gentle  birth.  Fate  has  made  of  me  a 
recluse — a  hermit.  I  do  not  revile  her.  She 
gives  me  compensations  of  which  your  letter  and 
offer  are  not  the  least.  Will  you  write  again? 

"  ROBIN  ADAIR. 

"  P.S. — I  am  sorry  you  dislike  pseudonyms. 
This  is  one." 


78  The  Peacock  Feather 

Peter  re-read  the  letter  carefully.  He  put  it 
in  an  envelope  which  he  addressed  "To  my  Un- 
known Critic."  He  enclosed  this  in  a  second 
envelope,  on  which  he  wrote  the  address  he  had 
been  given.  This  again  he  enclosed  with  a  brief 
letter  to  his  publishers,  asking  them  to  post  the 
enclosure  in  London.  The  next  day  he  would  take 
it  in  to  the  market-town. 

Peter  leant  back  in  his  chair.  Then  he  poured 
himself  out  a  second  glass  of  wine,  which  he  drank 
slowly. 

This  was  a  gala  night. 

Finally  he  set  down  his  glass  and  spoke  aloud. 

"Though  the  expense  is  entirely  unjustifiable, 
I  shall  buy  a  dress  suit." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

CHATEAUX  EN  ESPAGNE 

HENCEFORTH  Peter  walked  daily  to  the  post- 
office  in  the  market-town.  And  never  perhaps 
has  author  so  eagerly  awaited  the  sight  of  a  letter 
from  his  publishers. 

For  ten  days,  however,  the  journeys  made  by 
him  were  fruitless,  and  he  began  to  cast  about 
despairingly  in  his  mind  for  the  memory  of  any- 
thing in  his  own  letter  that  could  have  offended. 
But  he  found  nothing.  His  writing,  during 
these  days,  did  not  progress.  He  was  too  rest- 
less, too  anxious,  to  work  quietly.  Sometimes 
he  sat  at  his  cottage  door  and  piped.  Occasion- 
ally a  small  crowd  of  children  would  gather  out- 
side the  hedge,  drawn  by  the  magic  of  the  music. 
The  ceasing  of  the  pipe,  or  any  movement  on  his 
part,  however,  was  the  signal  for  them  to  scatter 
like  a  flock  of  frightened  sparrows,  and  he  would 
find  the  lane  deserted. 

79 


8o  The  Peacock  Feather 

At  last,  one  evening,  his  journey  to  the  market- 
town  proved  fruitful.  A  letter  awaited  him 
there,  also  a  box  bearing  the  name  of  a  London 
tailor. 

Peter  returned  across  the  fields  at  a  fine  pace, 
the  letter  in  his  breast  pocket,  the  box  under 
his  arm.  Arriving  at  his  cottage,  he  unknotted 
the  string  that  tied  it. 

Some  twenty  minutes  later,  Peter,  in  well-cut 
evening  clothes  and  with  a  gleaming  expanse 
of  white  shirt-front,  broke  the  seal  of  the  letter. 

You  perceive  he  was  a  host,  receiving  in  spirit 
the  woman  who  had  deigned  to  consider  him 
worthy  of  notice.  And  now  he  held  the  letter 
in  his  hand  and  saw  once  more  the  delicate,  firm 
writing. 

"LONDON, 

"May  27th'. 

"First  I  must  thank  you  that  you  have  not 
misunderstood  me.  And  now  that  the  under- 
standing between  us  is  complete,  I  can  write 
more  freely,  more  fully. 

"So  you  are  a  recluse.  Perhaps  you  are  to  be 
envied.  I  have  been,  and  am,  in  the  midst  of 


Chateaux  en  Espagne  81 

that  mumming-show  society,  where  we  all  wear 
gaily-coloured  masks  and  jest  with  those  around 
us.  We  speak  little  as  we  feel,  but  largely  as  we 
are  expected  to  speak.  Is  it  part  of  your  com- 
pensation that  you  need  not  speak  at  all?  For 
me,  I  am  somewhat  weary  of  the  show.  It  is 
very  gaudy,  and  the  music,  I  think,  too  loud. 
You  may  ask  why  I  attend  it,  and  to  that  I  have 
no  answer,  except  that  custom  demands  it  of  me 
as  a  right.  How  many  people,  I  wonder,  act  not 
according  to  their  own  individuality,  but  rather 
as  usage  and  those  around  them  expect  them  to 
act? 

"Is  it  possible,  I  wonder,  to  free  oneself  from 
tradition,  that  closely  fitting  garment  placed 
upon  us  by  our  ancestors  at  birth,  which  becomes, 
to  the  majority,  as  much  part  and  parcel  of  our- 
selves as  our  skin?  Clothed  in  it,  I  attend  dances, 
dinners,  bridge  parties,  and  theatres,  from  which 
I  am  at  the  moment  recoiling  with  a  kind  of  mental 
nausea.  Should  I  strip  myself  of  the  garment, 
shall  I  not  feel  cold  and  shivery — in  short,  to  use 
a  common  phrase,  feel  'out  of  things'?  And  once 
the  garment  is  definitely  discarded  it  may  not  be 
so  easily  donned  again;  at  all  events,  it  might  not 


82  The  Peacock  Feather 

fit  so  well.  You,  a  writer,  who  in  your  solitude 
think  many  thoughts,  give  me  your  opinion. 

"Mercifully,  custom  has  at  least  decreed  that 
I  should  spend  some  months  in  the  country.  In 
a  few  days'  time  I  go  down  to  it.  There  my 
individuality  resumes  what  I  believe  to  be  its 
rightful  sway.  I  have  a  garden.  It  is,  as  the 
poet  sings,  a  thing  of  beauty,  and  is  to  me  a  joy 
for  ever. 

"A  summer  evening  in  a  flower-scented  garden! 
Can  you — you  writer  of  poetic  prose — conceive 
anything  more  full  of  charm  and  delight?  I  have 
a  bed  of  night-stocks — poor,  dilapidated,  withered 
things  in  the  daytime,  and  the  despair  of  my 
gardener.  But  in  the  evening  on  the  terrace  the 
odour  is  entrancing — divine.  My  thoughts  are 
'carried  on  the  wings  of  perfume  into  high  places.' 
You  see,  I  can  quote  from  your  book  and  from 
memory. 

"No;  the  cry  beneath  its  strength  and  sun- 
shine was  faint,  barely  discernible.  I  confess 
that  at  the  first  reading,  which  I  took  at  a 
draught,  I  did  not  observe  it.  It  was  when  I 
returned,  as  I  did,  to  sip  the  wine  of  its  poetic 
fancy  that  I  detected  the  slightly  bitter  taste. 


Chateaux  en  Espagne  83 

Yet  bitter  is  not  a  fair  word  to  use.  Bitter- 
sweet would  be  better,  though  that  barely  fits 
the  flavour.  The  exact  word — if  one  exists — has 
escaped  me. 

"You  quote  from  Emerson,  and  also  speak  of 
compensation.  Of  course,  you  know  this: 

"'We  cannot  part  with  our  friends.  We  can- 
not let  our  angels  go.  We  do  not  see  that  they 
go  out  only  that  archangels  may  come  in.  ... 
The  compensations  of  calamity  are  made  appar- 
ent to  the  understanding  also,  after  long  intervals 
of  time.  ...  It  permits  or  constrains  the  forma- 
tion of  new  acquaintances  and  the  reception  of 
new  influences,  that  prove  of  the  first  import- 
ance to  the  next  years;  and  the  man  or  woman 
who  would  have  remained  a  sunny  garden-flower, 
with  no  room  for  its  roots  and  too  much  sunshine 
for  its  head,  by  the  falling  of  the  walls  and  the 
neglect  of  the  gardener  is  made  the  banian  of  the 
forest,  yielding  shade  and  fruit  to  wide  neigh- 
bourhoods of  men.' 

"Your  quotation  made  me  look  up  my  Emerson. 
I  found  your  sentence,  and  went  on  to  read  '  Com- 
pensation,' whence  I  have  copied  the  above. 

"Would   your   writing   have   been   as   human 


84  The  Peacock  Feather 

were  it  not  for  the  hidden  wound  you  bear?     Is 
it  some  compensation  to  know  that  to  one  soul 
at  least  your  words  have  brought  refreshment? 
What  are  you  writing  now? 
"I  like  your  pseudonym." 

Peter  read  the  letter  through  twice  then  put 
it  on  the  table  while  he  prepared  his  supper. 
He  laid  two  places  to-night,  laughing  at  him- 
self for  the  fancy.  His  Unknown  Lady  was  very 
present  with  him,  you  perceive. 

He  pretended — and  loved  the  pretence — that 
she  was  dining  with  him.  He  let  himself  imagine 
that  a  woman,  clad  in  chiffon  and  lace,  and  fra- 
grant with  that  delicate  scent  of  lavender,  sat 
in  the  chair  opposite  to  him;  that  the  candle- 
light was  playing  on  her  warm  hair,  finding 
reflection  in  her  luminous  eyes.  No  palace  con- 
tained a  more  courteous  host  that  night  than  did 
that  little  cottage;  no  royal  guest  received  a 
greater  welcome  than  did  Peter's  Dream  Lady. 

It  was  a  strange,  fantastic  little  scene.  Had 
any  one  peered  through  the  cottage  window, 
they  would  have  seen  a  barely  furnished  room, 
a  meagre  supper-table  lit  by  a  couple  of  candles, 


Chateaux  en  Espagne  85 

and,  seated  at  the  table,  a  man  in  well-cut  evening 
clothes — a  man  groomed  with  the  fresh  cleanness 
of  a  well-bred  Englishman.  They  would  have 
seen  a  second  place  laid  at  the  table,  and  in  the 
second  place,  between  the  knife  and  fork,  a  bluish 
letter  lying.  They  would  have  seen  both  glasses 
filled  with  red  wine. 

Mad?  Not  a  bit  of  it!  Peter  was  entirely 
sane,  and  very  refreshingly  healthy.  But — and 
herein  lay  the  difference  between  him  and  many 
of  his  countrymen — he  was  possessed  of  a  fine 
imagination. 

And  when  Peter  had  drunk  the  health  of  his 
Dream  Lady,  he  began  to  talk  to  her;  and  for 
this  purpose  pen,  ink,  and  paper  came  once  more 
into  requisition. 

"May  2Qth. 

"Your  first  letter  was  welcome;  your  second  is 
ten  thousand  times  more  so.  The  first  was  the 
mere  fluttering  of  a  signal,  waved  at  a  distance. 
This  evening  you  are  near,  and  I  can  speak  more 
easily. 

"As  for  the  garment  of  tradition,  I  fancy  it 
may  at  times  be  discarded  by  ourselves  and 


$6  The  Peacock  Feather 

gently,  and  again  donned  without  fear  of  it  fitting 
less  well.  In  fact,  may  it  not  gain  greater  value 
in  our  own  eyes  and  in  the  eyes  of  others  by  its 
temporary  disuse?  It  is  when  fate  strips  it  from 
us,  tearing  it  to  ribbons  in  the  process,  that  it 
cannot  again  be  worn,  or  worn  merely  as  a  sorry, 
ragged  semblance  of  what  it  once  has  been.  It 
is  then,  to  use  your  own  parlance,  that  one  feels 
'out  of  things.'  I,  who  write  to  you,  speak  from 
experience.  Fate  tore  my  garment  from  me, 
and  in  so  doing  made  the  wound  you  have  de- 
tected. But  enough  of  that.  The  touch  of  your 
hand  upon  it  has  eased  its  smart,  though  possibly 
— nay  probably — the  scar  will  remain  throughout 
my  life. 

"Thank  you  for  your  quotation.  Yes;  I  know 
it.  I  am  glad  the  shade  of  my  banian-tree — 
a  very  small  one — has  reached  you,  and  its  fruit 
brought  you  refreshment.  The  'ever-onward' 
note  of  Emerson  is  exhilarating.  There  is  no  re- 
pining, no  sitting  down  with  folded  hands  under 
grief,  but  an  ever  pushing  forward  to  the  light,  as 
a  green  shoot  pushes  aside  earth  and  stones  in  its 
journey  upward  through  the  soil  to  the  sun. 

"Yes,   I  am  writing  again;  but  the  last  few 


Chateaux  en  Espagne  87 

days  I  have  done  little.  I  could  not  tear  myself 
away  from  the  thought  of  the  next  letter  I  should 
receive  from  you.  Sometimes  I  feared  that  none 
would  come,  that  you  might  have  regretted  your 
offer.  It  was  an  unworthy  thought ;  forgive  me. 
Now,  I  shall  write  again  quietly. 

"You  ask  what  it  is  that  I  am  writing.  It 
is  the  story  of  a  man,  a  wayfarer.  I  do  not  think 
there  is  much  plot  in  the  story.  Probably  all 
the  plot  lies  in  the  past  which  he  has  thrown 
behind  him.  Fate  has  made  of  him  a  wanderer, 
as  she  has  made  a  recluse  of  me.  During  his 
wanderings  he  thinks  much.  I  am  endeavouring 
to  record  those  thoughts  as  he  traverses  the  fields 
and  lanes.  If  the  gods  are  good  to  me,  perhaps 
one  day  the  thoughts  may  reach  you  in  book  form. 
Then  you  will  give  me  your  opinion  on  them. 

"Soon  you  will  be  among  your  night-stocks 
in  your  garden.  Their  perfume  will  be  more 
fragrant  than  the  scent  of  ballrooms  and  theatres. 

"Good-night. 

"  ROBIN  ADAIR. 

"Have  I  thanked  you  for  your  letter?  I  do 
thank  you  from  my  heart." 


CHAPTER  IX 

A    REQUEST 

SOME  evenings  later  Peter  was  again  a  host 
holding  sweet  converse  with  his  Lady.  Here, 
first,  are  her  words  to  him. 

"LONDON, 
"  June  3rd. 

"The  day  after  to-morrow  I  shall  be  in  my 
garden,  revelling  in  its  beauty  and  in  the  per- 
fume of  my  night-stocks.  The  scent  of  ball- 
rooms and  theatres  will  be  left  behind  in  this 
big  noisy  London.  It  has  its  fascination,  though. 
This  morning  the  streets  were  bathed  in  sun- 
light, and  crowded  with  women  in  gay  dresses 
till  they  looked  like  a  great  restless  nosegay. 
We  talk  of  'Spring  in  the  country,'  but  here  its 
note  is  just  as  insistent.  In  February  the  Parks 
were  brilliant  with  crocuses,  their  hardy  little 

88 


A  Request  89 

yellow,  white,  and  purple  flowers  spreading  far 
under  the  trees.  They  were  followed  by  daffodils 
and  tulips,  masses  of  glorious  colour.  And  for 
sheer  beauty  give  me  a  sunset  across  the  Parks, 
or  the  blue  mists  veiling  the  great  masses  of  build- 
ing. Or,  again,  the  river  between  sunset  and 
night.  Have  you  ever  walked  along  the  Embank- 
ment in  the  evening?  I  walked  there  yesterday. 
Westward  the  river  and  sky  flamed  purple, 
crimson,  and  gold;  eastward  a  silver  haze  covered 
land  and  water,  with  pale  lights  shining  through 
and  reflected  in  the  river.  A  small  boy  walking 
with  his  mother  exclaimed  in  rapture, '  Oh,  mother, 
look  at  the  lights!'  'What  about  them,  dear?' 
came  the  reply.  The  matter-of-fact  tone  of  the 
words  was  indescribable.  Thus  is  the  early 
glimmering  of  poetry  effaced  from  the  infant 
mind.  I  write  of  it  lightly.  At  the  moment 
indignation  and  tears  struggled  for  the  mastery. 

"I  read  the  following  advertisement  in  a  paper 
the  other  day : 

'"Wanted,  a  bright  sympathetic  woman,  not 
necessarily  under  25,  as  Companion-Help  in 
a  family  of  three.  No  children,  no  washing, 
but  the  ordinary  work  of  the  house  to  be  done. 


90  The  Peacock  Feather 

Must  be  educated,  as  she  is  wanted  to  be  one 
of .  the  family  and  help  in  philanthropic  work. 
Will  be  needed  to  do  plain  cooking,  and  a  "sense 
of  humour"  will  be  appreciated.  Salary  a  matter 
of  arrangement .  Protestant . ' 

"Then  followed  the  address.  Doesn't  it  strike 
you  as  rather  funny?  Can  you  imagine  any  one 
sitting  down  solemnly  to  answer  it?  Testi- 
monials re  a  sense  of  humour! 

"'Dear  Madam,  in  my  former  situations  my 
sense  of  humour  proved  a  great  attraction.  I 
enclose  extracts  from  references.  "Jane  Smith 
is  the  soul  of  wit."  "Our  Companion-Help 
kept  us  through  meal-time  in  one  perpetual  roar 
of  laughter."  "Laughter  is  the  best  digestive 
sauce.  Jane  Smith's  humour  provides  that  sauce ! " 

"  I  am  glad  you  think  I  may  at  times  discard 
my  garment  of  tradition.  Now  I  come  to  think 
of  it,  I  believe  I  did  discard  it  when  I  first  wrote 
to  you.  I  do  not  think  at  that  moment  the 
ancestral  garment  can  have  been  upon  me.  Talk- 
ing of  that  first  letter,  will  you  do  me  a  favour? 
I  want  you  to  burn  it.  It  was  too  solemn,  too 
serious,  written  with  altogether  too  heavy  a  pen. 
Something  made  me  write  it,  and  I  am  glad  of  it ; 


A  Request  91 

but  I  was  so  anxious  to  place  myself  above  the 
possibility  of  a  snub  that  my  sense  of  humour  was 
for  the  moment  obliterated.  I  took  myself  and 
my  own  importance  too  seriously.  Therefore 
please  destroy  it,  though  it  is  quite  possible  that 
you  have  already  done  so. 

"  I  want  to  read  the  thoughts  of  your  Wanderer. 
They  should  be  untrammelled  thoughts,  wide 
as  the  open  spaces  he  is  traversing.  When  the 
gods  are  good  to  you  I  shall  look  for  a  copy  of 
the  book.  I  prefer  my  word  to  your  'if.' 

"My  next  letter  shall  be  written  from  my 
terrace  if  the  sunshine  continues  in  this  glory. 
Good-night." 

The  letter  read,  Peter  repeated  the  little  cere- 
mony of  dining  with,  and  toasting,  his  Lady. 

He  then  proceeded  to  write  to  her. 

\ 

"June  5th. 

"DEAR  LADY, — Thank  you  for  your  letter. 
Doubtless  the  Muses  join  with  you  in  your  tears 
and  indignation  when  they  see  their  children 
stifled  at  birth.  I  wonder  what  'Mrs.  Be-done- 
by-as-you-did '  will  have  in  store  for  those  parents. 


92  The  Peacock  Feather 

Yet  their  intentions  are  probably  of  the  very  best. 

"I  should  like  to  see  the  answers  that  ad- 
vertisement will  receive.  Protestant  and  philan- 
thropic work,  when  advertised  as  such,  seem 
inconsistent  with  a  sense  of  humour.  The  person 
who  answers  the  advertisement  will  either  be 
devoid  of  it,  or  possess  it  in  a  very  marked  degree. 

"Why  should  the  first  favour  you  ask  of  me 
be  one  I  have  not  the  heart  to  grant!  I  cannot 
burn  that  letter.  I  should  watch  it  shrivel  and 
twist  in  the  flames  like  some  protesting  living 
thing.  It  would  be  like  burning  the  photograph 
of  a  friend.  Call  me  superstitious,  idiotic,  any 
name  you  choose,  but  I  can't  do  it.  I  will,  how- 
ever, return  it  to  you,  though  with  great  re- 
luctance, and  you  can  do  with  it  as  you  will. 
Send  me  in  exchange  one  of  your  night-stocks. 
It  will  be  less  shrivelled  than  your  letter  had  I 
done  as  you  ask. 

"Dear  Unknown  Lady,  when  my  next  book 
is  published — you  see,  I  accept  your  correction 
— have  I  your  permission  to  dedicate  it  to  you? 
With  the .  exception  of  the  first  two  chapters, 
which  were  written  before  I  knew  you,  it  is  written 
to  you  and  for  you  alone.  My  Wanderer  speaks 


j 
A  Request  93 

his  thoughts  directly  to  you,  believing  that  they 
will  find  favour  in  your  sight. 

"Though  I  have  churlishly  refused  the  favour 
you  asked  of  me,  will  you  grant  me  this  one? 

"  ROBIN  ADAIR." 

Peter  put  the  letter  into  an  envelope  and 
addressed  it.  After  a  few  minutes  he  came  out 
of  the  cottage  into  the  little  copse. 

The  June  night  was  very  still.  The  after- 
glow from  the  sunset  still  lingered  in  the  west; 
the  darkness  would  be  of  short  duration. 

Suddenly  the  sound  of  wheels  struck  on  Peter's 
ear,  and  the  quick  clear  tang  of  horses'  hoofs 
on  the  dry  road.  A  few  moments  later  a  carriage 
came  into  sight,  and  drove  past  him  towards  the 
village.  In  spite  of  the  dusk  Peter  saw  that  the 
men  on  the  box  wore  livery,  and  a  lamp  inside 
the  carriage  gave  him  a  glimpse  of  two  women's 
forms.  A  couple  of  boxes  were  strapped  at  the 
back  of  the  carriage. 

"Without  doubt,"  said  Peter  to  himself,  "it 
is  Lady  Anne  returning." 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   LADY   ANNE 

LADY  ANNE  GARLAND  was  sitting  by  a  rosewood 
writing-desk  in  her  morning-room.  She  had  fin- 
ished her  letters,  and  was  now  sitting  idle,  gazing 
through  the  window  on  to  the  terrace,  and  away 
to  the  distant  woods  and  hills,  which  lay  serenely 
blue  in  the  sunlight. 

She  was  dreaming  rather  than  thinking,  and 
a  pleasant  little  dream  it  would  seem,  by  the  half 
smile  in  her  grey  eyes.  The  sunshine  lay  along 
the  floor  in  a  broad,  vivid  patch.  It  fell  across 
her  white  dress  and  on  her  dark  hair,  which  held 
the  blue-black  sheen  of  a  rook's  plumage.  Her 
skin  was  creamy-white,  and  her  mouth,  modelled 
like  the  mouth  of  a  Greek  statue,  was  of  geranium 
red.  In  fine,  Lady  Anne  was  beautiful. 

The  sound  of  the  door  opening  made  her  turn 
her  head.  A  small  thin  woman  entered.  She 

94 


The  Lady  Anne  95 

was  dressed  in  a  tailor-made  dress  of  some  pepper- 
and-salt  material,  and  wore  a  black  straw  hat, 
rather  floppy,  and  distinctly  out  of  keeping  with 
her  otherwise  tailor-made  appearance.  Her  hair 
was  grey,  and  her  skin  somewhat  like  parchment, 
but  her  eyes  and  mouth  were  kindly. 

"Finished  your  letters?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Anne,  getting  up  from  her  desk. 
"Come  into  the  garden.  It  is  too  lovely  a  day 
to  waste  indoors." 

She  led  the  way  through  the  French  window 
on  to  the  terrace,  and  sat  down  on  one  of  two 
deck-chairs.  Miss  Haldane  followed  her  example. 

"You  should  have  a  hat,"  she  said  abruptly. 

"No,"  replied  Anne  lazily,  "I  like  the  sun.  I 
think  my  skin  is  too  thick  to  burn.  Look  at 
the  blueness  on  those  woods  and  hills;  isn't  it 
glorious?" 

Miss  Haldane  put  up  her  eyeglasses  and  looked 
at  the  landscape. 

"Very  nice,  my  dear.  Jabez  said  the  hay 
harvest  was  unusually  good  this  year." 

Jabez  was  the  head  gardener. 

Anne  laughed  softly.  "You  are  so  delight- 
fully practical,  Matty  dear.  If  the  sun  shines 


96  The  Peacock  Feather 

you  think  of  the  crops,  if  the  rain  falls  you  think 
of  the  crops,  if  the  wind  blows  you  still  think  of 
the  crops.  You  missed  your  vocation  when  you 
took  up  the  post  of  companion  to  a  sentimental 
dreamer;  you  should  have  been  a  farmer." 

"Had  the  good  Lord  made  me  a  man,  I  should 
have  been  one,"  replied  Miss  Haldane  instantly. 
"As  it  is,  I  take  an  interest  in  the  fanning  of  your 
tenants.  And  you  must  allow  that  weather  is 
of  the  first  importance  to  them."  She  dropped 
her  eyeglasses  and  looked  at  Anne. 

"I  know,"  owned  Anne;  "but  turnips  do  not 
appeal  to  me.  I  love  my  flowers  to  have  their 
needs  supplied,  however;  and  that  shows  that 
I  am  selfish  enough  to  be  merely  interested  in 
what  interests  me." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"The  cottage  in  the  copse  has  found  an  inhabi- 
tant," said  Miss  Haldane  suddenly  and  abruptly. 
"I  can't  call  him  a  tenant  because  the  man  pays 
no  rent.  I  suppose  no  one  knows  to  whom  the 
rent  would  be  due." 

"Really!"  exclaimed  Anne,  replying  to  the 
first  part  of  Miss  Haldane's  speech.  "Who 
has  been  bold  enough  to  venture  there?" 


The  Lady  Anne  97 

"A  vagabond  of  sorts,  I  believe,"  said  Miss 
Haldane.  "Of  course,  the  villagers  are  look- 
ing upon  him  with  suspicion  and  distrust.  He 
wears  a  peacock  feather  in  his  hat  and  plays  the 
penny  whistle. 

"How  pleasant!"  said  Anne. 

Miss  Haldane  snorted.  "Can't  you  have  him 
turned  out?"  she  demanded.  "I  don't  think  it 
is  a  good  plan  to  have  a  vagabond  settling  in 
the  village." 

"The  cottage  is  not  mine,"  replied  Anne; 
"as  far  as  I  know,  it  is  no  man's  property.  Be- 
sides, does  he  do  any  harm — poach,  or  anything 
like  that?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of,"  returned  Miss  Haldane. 
"In  fact,  they  say  he  buys,  and  pays  for,  certain 
provisions  at  the  village  shop." 

"Then,"  said  Anne  lazily,  "he  is  not  a  vaga- 
bond. A  vagabond  is  one  without  visible  means 
of  subsistence;  this  man  evidently  has  visible 
means.  I  wonder  what  he  is  like.  I  fancied 
no  man  would  have  braved  that  cottage  after 
nightfall  even  if  he  had  ventured  within  at  day- 
light. At  all  events,  superstition  has  been  very 
rife  around  it." 
t 


98  The  Peacock  Feather 

"They  say  he  plays  the  penny  whistle  beauti- 
fully, "  remarked  Miss  Haldane. 

Anne's  eyes  twinkled.  "You  have  culled  much 
information  since  our  arrival  last  night,  Matty 
dear.  The  man  shall  come  and  give  us  a  concert." 

"My  dear!" 

"Why  not?"  asked  Anne  carelessly.  "An 
unstudied  simple  concert  on  the  penny  whistle 
would,  I  am  sure,  be  full  of  charm.  Burton 
shall  go  down  to-morrow  and  request  him  from 
me  to  come  up  to  the  terrace." 

Miss  Haldane  was  shocked,  perturbed.  In 
a  word,  she  fluttered  in  a  manner  not  unlike  an 
elderly  hen  with  a  duckling  chick. 

"You  cannot  do  it,  Anne.  You  cannot  send 
a  footman  to  the  cottage  and  ask  the  man  to 
come  up  here.  In  the  first  place,  he  is  prob- 
ably a  socialist,  and  wouldn't  come.  In  the 
second  place — well,  it  isn't  nice." 

Anne  laughed  outright.  "Dear  Matty,  your 
favourite  adjective!  With  the  negative  prefix 
it  applies  equally  to  a  burnt  pudding,  or  to  a 
woman  who  leaves  her  husband  in  order  to 
run  away  with  another  man.  But  you're  a 
dear,  and  I  won't  laugh  at  you;  and  you 


The  Lady  Anne  99 

shan't  be  present  at  the  concert  if  you'd  rather 
not." 

Miss  Haldane  spoke  a  little  stiffly.  "If  you 
will  be  foolish,  Anne,  I  must  be  present  at  your 
folly.  It  is  the  only  way  in  which  I  can  merit 
the  liberal  salary  you  give  me." 

"Dear  Matty,  what  nonsense!"  said  Anne. 

Again  there  was  silence,  and  it  lasted  some 
time.  Butterflies  flitted  in  the  still  air,  bees 
droned  lazily  in  a  lime-tree  to  the  west  of  the 
terrace,  and  once  or  twice  a  dragonfly  skimmed 
past  with  a  flash  of  iridescent  wings. 

Miss  Haldane  looked  at  Anne  lying  back  in 
the  deck-chair,  which  was  placed  at  its  lowest 
angle.  Her  own  was  as  upright  as  was  con- 
sistent with  its  nature.  She  had  a  piece  of  crochet 
in  her  hands,  and  was  working  industriously. 
Matilda  Haldane  was  never  idle,  and  she  never 
lolled.  From  her  earliest  years  she  had  been 
told  to  "get  something  useful  to  do,"  if  there 
happened  to  be  a  single  spare  moment  in  the 
ordinary  routine  of  walks,  meals,  and  lessons. 
Later  she  was  obliged,  on  her  own  account,  to 
get  something  useful  to  do,  and  to  keep  doing 
it,  if  she  was  to  live  in  the  smallest  degree  as  she 


ioo  The  Peacock  Feather 

imagined  a  lady  should  live.  There  had  been 
nothing  extravagant  about  Miss  Haldane's  ideas, 
either,  but  they  had  included  a  seat  in  a  church 
where  sittings  were  rented  and  threepence  to  be 
placed  Sunday  morning  and  evening  in  the 
offertory-bag. 

The  useful  occupation  which  provided  her  with 
a  means  of  livelihood  had  been  monotonous — how 
monotonous  only  Miss  Haldane  knew.  Then 
suddenly,  and  by  some  intervention  of  provi- 
dence, Lady  Anne  Garland  came  across  her  path, 
and  at  a  moment  when  Lady  Anne  was — to  use 
her  own  parlance — tired  of  companions  who  were 
either  entirely  opinionated  or  entirely  deprecating, 
or,  worse  still,  who  dissolved  into  floods  of  injured 
tears  if  told  that  Anne  wished  to  receive  a  guest 
alone. 

Something  about  the  little  dried-up  woman — 
probably  her  quiet  and  indomitable  pluck  under 
adverse  conditions — appealed  to  Anne.  A  month 
after  their  first  meeting,  Miss  Haldane  found 
herself  transplanted  to  Anne's  London  house, 
with  a  salary  that  far  exceeded  her  wildest  dreams. 
The  only  fly  in  her  ointment  was  the  thought 
that  she  did  nothing  to  merit  it.  Merely  to 


The  Lady  Anne  101 

live  in  a  house,  to  be  waited  upon  by  servants, 
to  eat  dainty  food,  and  to  drive  with  Anne  in 
the  Parks,  seemed  to  her  an  utterly  inadequate 
return  for  the  money  she  received.  It  was, 
however,  all  that  Lady  Anne  wished  her  to  do. 
After  a  time  she  grew  accustomed  to  the  fact 
that  this  was  all  that  was  expected  of  her.  Her 
own  innate  dignity  and  Anne's  charming  and 
frank  manner  prevented  her  from  feeling  herself 
a  dependent,  and  an  odd  but  very  sincere  friend- 
ship was  the  result. 

This  was  now  the  third  summer  that  she  had 
sat  on  the  terrace  and  watched  Anne  lazing  in 
the  sunlight.  Her  beauty,  her  youthful  vigour, 
in  spite  of  her  present  indolent  pose,  struck  Miss 
Haldane  anew. 

Suddenly  Miss  Haldane  spoke.  "Anne,"  she 
said,  "I  wonder  you  have  never  married." 

The  sound  of  the  luncheon  gong  followed  on 
the  speech.  Anne  rose  from  her  chair  with 
panther-like  grace. 

"So  do  I,  Matty  dear — sometimes." 

"But  why  don't  you?"  asked  Miss  Haldane. 

Anne  walked  to  the  window.  At  the  window 
she  turned.  "Because,"  she  said,  mock-solemnity 


102  The  Peacock  Feather 

in  her  voice,  "though  few  people  realize  it,  I 
have  a  soul." 

"Of  course  you  have,"  replied  Miss  Haldane 
seriously;  "but  what  has  that  got  to  do  with 
marriage?" 

Anne  laughed.  "Nothing,  of  course,"  she 
replied;  "and  all  the  men  I  happen  to  know 
would  agree  with  you.  Don't  look  puzzled, 
Matty  dear,  but  come  and  have  lunch." 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  CONCERT— AND  AFTER 


PETER  was  partaking  of  a  noonday  meal  of 
bread  and  cheese  and  beer  when  a  knock  came 
on  his  cottage  door.  For  a  moment  or  two  he 
thought  his  ears  must  have  deceived  him,  and 
he  did  not  move.  But  the  knock  was  repeated. 

Peter  got  up  and  opened  the  door.  A  man 
in  footman's  garb  was  standing  outside.  He 
looked  Peter  up  and  down  with  a  slightly 
supercilious  expression. 

"Well?"  demanded  Peter. 

"The  Lady  Anne  Garland  wishes  you  to  bring 
your  penny  whistle-pipe  to  the  terrace  at  four 
o'clock  this  afternoon,  and  be  punctual,"  he 
announced. 

It  was  not  precisely  the  formula  in  which 
Lady  Anne  had  worded  the  message,  but  Burton 

103 


IO4  The  Peacock  Feather 

considered  it  an  exact  enough  paraphrase  to  be 
delivered  to  a  mere  vagabond.  It  was  in  his 
eyes  an  even  over-courteous  method  of  deliver- 
ing the  message. 

"Indeed!"  said  Peter. 

"Four  punctual,"  repeated  the  man  with  a 
slightly  insolent  air.  And  he  turned  from  the 
door. 

Had  he  lingered  a  moment  longer  Peter  would 
quite  probably  have  kicked  him.  Astonishment 
on  Peter's  part  and  a  swift  retreat  on  his  alone 
saved  him. 

"Upon  my  word!"  ejaculated  Peter,  looking 
after  the  retreating  figure.  Then  he  went  into 
the  cottage  and  shut  the  door. 

"Insolence  or  fame,"  remarked  Peter  to  his 
glass  of  beer,  "in  which  light  shall  I  regard  it?" 
And  then  suddenly  he  laughed. 

After  all  it  smacked  finely  of  medieval  days, 
this  command  from  the  lady  of  the  manor  to 
appear  before  her.  Annoyance  began  to  vanish; 
even  the  insolence  of  the  flunkey  was  in  the  pic- 
ture. It  was  fame,  there  was  no  question  about  it. 

"And,  Robin  Adair,  you  writer  of  tales,  here's 
a  subject  made  to  your  hand,"  he  quoted. 


A  Concert — and  After  105 

Oh,  he'd  act  the  part  well!  A  hint  more  dis- 
array than  usual  about  his  costume,  his  oldest 
coat  and  trousers — he  had  two  day  suits  now, 
this  possessor  of  a  cottage — must  certainly  be 
worn,  with  the  peacock  feather  at  its  jauntiest 
angle.  He  must  also  allow  himself  a  slight 
air  of  swagger,  as  of  one  conferring  a  favour; 
in  appearance  the  vagabond  they  regarded  him, 
in  manner  a  Kubelik  stepping  with  assurance 
before  his  audience. 

Peter  began  to  be  pleased,  to  look  forward 
to  the  appointed  hour  with  interest.  It  was 
the  writer  in  him,  the  man  who  sees,  in  any 
novel  situation  in  which  he  may  find  himself, 
new  material  for  his  pen. 

"Fate,"  quoth  Peter  to  himself,  "is  thrust- 
ing another  role  upon  me."  And  then  as  children 
— and  grown-ups  for  the  matter  of  that — count 
cherry  stones,  he  ticked  them  off  on  his  fingers. 
"Gentleman,  scamp,  jail-bird,  tramp,  author, 
writer  of  letters  to  an  Unknown  Fair  One,  and 
piper  to  the  lady  of  the  manor.  Peter,  my  son, 
what  else  have  the  Fates  in  store  for  you?" 
And  then  he  gave  a  little  involuntary  sigh,  for 
after  all,  was  not  the  chief  rOle  assigned  to  him — 


io6  The  Peacock  Feather 

the  one  which  superseded  all  others — that  of  a 
lonely  man? 

"Fool!"  cried  Peter  to  his  heart.  "Does 
not  the  sun  shine  for  you,  the  wind  blow  for  you, 
and  the  birds  sing  for  you?  Have  you  not  free 
and  untrammelled  communion  with  Nature  in 
all  her  varying  moods?" 

But  all  the  same  the  very  enumeration  of  the 
many  rdles  seemed  to  have  emphasized  the  one 
more  strongly. 

At  a  quarter  to  four  Peter,  in  his  oldest  and 
shabbiest  garments,  with  the  peacock  feather 
extremely  jaunty  in  his  shabby  felt  hat  and  his 
whistle-pipe  in  his  pocket,  set  off  for  the  white 
house  on  the  hill. 

It  was  a  still  sunny  day,  like  many  of  its  pre- 
decessors that  summer.  June  had  taken  the 
earth  into  a  warm,  peaceful  grasp.  There  was 
a  restfulness  about  the  atmosphere,  a  quiet  as- 
surance of  continued  heat  and  sunshine.  A 
faint  breeze  came  softly  from  the  west,  barely 
stirring  the  leaves  on  the  hedges.  To  the  east 
were  great  masses  of  luminous  cloud,  piled  like 
snow-mountains,  motionless  and  still.  The  dust 


A  Concert — and  After  107 

lay  thick  and  powdery  in  the  lane,  whitening 
Peter's  boots;  the  grass,  too,  was  powdered,  but 
slightly,  for  there  was  little  traffic  this  way. 
Peter,  to  whom  the  passing  of  a  vehicle  was  some- 
what of  an  event,  barely  ever  counted  more  than 
two  or  three  in  the  day. 

He  left  the  lane  behind  him  and  came  out 
on  to  the  village  green.  As  he  passed  across 
it  men  looked  at  him  suspiciously,  and  a  woman 
carrying  a  basket  stepped  hastily  to  one  side 
as  if  she  feared  contact  with  him.  Peter  smiled 
brilliantly,  and  raised  his  hat  with  an  air  of  almost 
exaggerated  courtliness.  One  man  spat  on  the 
ground  and  muttered  something  that  sounded 
like  a  curse,  but  Peter  went  on  his  way  apparently 
unheeding. 

He  passed  the  lodge  gates  and  went  up  the 
drive,  under  beeches  green,  copper,  and  purple, 
their  trunks  emerald  and  silver  in  the  sunlight. 
On  the  terrace  to  the  right  of  the  house  he  saw 
two  figures,  one  in  white  and  one  in  some  neutral 
colour.  As  he  drew  near  the  white-robed  figure 
raised  her  hand,  beckoning  him  to  approach. 

Peter  came  up  to  the  terrace,  standing  just 
below  on  the  gravel  path.  He  swept  off  his 


io8  The  Peacock  Feather 

hat  and  stood  bareheaded.  Then  he  looked 
up  and  saw  Lady  Anne  Garland  watching  him. 

Peter's  heart  gave  a  jump,  and  for  no  reason 
in  the  world  that  he  could  ascribe,  beyond  the 
fact  that  she  was  beautiful,  oh!  but  undeniably 
beautiful.  She  was  a  young  woman,  tall  and 
slender,  in  a  white  dress,  and  a  crimson  rose 
tucked  in  her  waist-belt.  She  wore  no  hat.  Her 
hair  shone  blue-black,  warm  and  lustrous  in  the 
sun. 

Of  the  other  woman  Peter  took  little  note, 
beyond  observing  that  she  was  elderly  and  looked 
at  him  with  evident  disapproval. 

"So  you  are  Peter  the  Piper?"  said  Lady  Anne 
in  her  low,  distinguished  voice. 

"At  your  service,"  said  Peter. 

Lady  Anne  looked  at  him  curiously.  He 
was  altogether  different  from  what  she  had  ex- 
pected, this  man  in  the  shabby  clothes,  with 
the  brilliant  peacock  feather,  and  with  the  bronzed 
clear-cut  face  and  sad  eyes. 

"We  have  heard,"  said  Anne,  and  there  was 
an  air  of  royal  graciousness  in  the  words,  "that 
you  are  a  marvellous  piper.  Are  you  willing 
to  pipe  for  us?"  She  smiled  at  him  as  she  spoke. 


A  Concert — and  After  109 

And  again  Peter's  heart  jumped,  and  began  to 
beat  at  a  fine  rate. 

"With  all  the  pleasure  in  the  world,"  he  re- 
plied, and  he  drew  the  pipe  from  his  pocket. 

Anne  watched  him  as  he  laid  his  fingers  lovingly 
around  it.  For  a  moment  or  so  he  stood  motion- 
less. And  then  he  began  to  play. 

First  Anne  heard  an  ordinary  little  march, 
quite  conventional,  but  sufficiently  gay  and 
lively.  Then  it  broke  into  curious  discords 
played  in  rapid  succession.  Next  followed  a 
minor  passage,  tense,  constrained,  as  if  the  strange 
little  air  running  through  it  were  struggling  for 
greater  liberty  of  expression.  Suddenly  it  found 
it,  blending  into  a  Te  Deum,  grand  and  glorious. 
All  at  once  it  stopped,  breaking  again  into  a  suc- 
cession of  strange  discords  which  hurt  Anne  to 
hear.  There  was  an  instant's  pause,  as  if  the 
first  half  of  his  theme  were  finished.  Then,  played 
in  the  minor  key,  came  a  gay  song  with  an  under 
note  of  marching  feet,  and  through  it  a  wistful 
yearning  as  for  something  lost.  The  air  changed 
to  the  major,  and  was  repeated.  Then  came  a 
little  melody  played  quite  separately  and  on  its 
own  account,  a  little  rocking  melody,  not  unlike 


no  The  Peacock  Feather 

a  cradle  song.  It  ceased,  and  a  new  theme  be- 
gan quite  unlike  anything  that  had  preceded  it. 
Anne  listened  with  suspended  breath.  She  made 
no  attempt  to  classify  it  as  she  had  classified  his 
previous  themes.  But  above  and  beyond  all  the 
others  it  spoke  directly  to  her  heart. 

Suddenly  she  was  aware  that  the  music 
had  stopped,  and  that  Peter  was  looking  at 
her  like  a  man  who  has  just  come  out  of  a 
trance. 

Anne's  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  and  she  held  out  her 
hand. 

Peter  came  forward  and  took  it.  Then — 
it  seemed  that  the  action  was  almost  involun- 
tary— he  raised  it  to  his  lips. 

Miss  Haldane  fairly  gasped,  sitting  upright 
and  grasping  the  supports  of  the  deck-chair  with 
both  hands.  The  effrontery!  the  audacity!  the 
— the — she  had  no  further  word  in  her  vocabulary 
with  which  to  express  her  indignation. 

Yet  if  Lady  Anne  were  displeased  she  did  not 
show  it.  She  looked  at  Peter  long  and  curiously, 
as  if  seeking  for  something  she  might  find,  some- 
thing that  escaped,  eluded  her. 


A  Concert — and  After  in 

"You  will  come  and  play  to  me  again?"  she 
asked. 

' '  Perhaps,"  said  Peter  thoughtfully.  He  seemed 
not  yet  fully  recovered  from  what  had  appeared 
like  a  trance. 

Miss  Haldane  made  an  inarticulate  sound  in 
her  throat.  This  assuredly  surpassed  everything. 
She  had  been  right,  quite  right,  when  she  had 
considered  he  might  be  a  socialist. 

"It  must  of  course,"  said  Anne  courteously, 
"be  exactly  as  you  wish." 

Peter  bowed,  and  the  next  moment  moved 
away,  walking  down  the  avenue  of  beeches. 
Anne  looked  after  his  retreating  figure  thought- 
fully, wonderingly. 

"Impudence!"  gasped  Miss  Haldane.  She 
felt  that  her  goddess,  her  divinity,  had  been 
insulted. 

"No,  Matty  dear,"  said  Anne,  "the  man  is  an 
artist." 

"An  artist!"  said  Miss  Haldane.  She  was 
unwilling  to  allow  that  the  music  had  appealed 
to  her. 

"Yes,"  replied  Anne,  musing,  "an  artist! 
Heaven  knows  how  many  faults  of  construction 


ii2  The  Peacock  Feather 

there  may  not  have  been  in  his  theme.  Possibly 
had  I  been  educated  in  the  technical  know- 
ledge of  music  I  should  have  found  it  positively 
bristling  with  them.  I  am  glad  I  know  nothing 
of  the  technique  of  music.  I  could  listen  and 
appreciate.  Don't  you  understand,  Matty  dear, 
how  wonderful  it  was!  The  man's  a  genius!" 

"Well!"  ejaculated  Miss  Haldane.  She  got  up 
and  moved  towards  the  French  window.  Before 
entering  she  turned  suddenly. 

"My  dear,"  she  exclaimed,  "you  never  paid 
him!" 

"I  know,"  said  Lady  Anne  quietly. 

II 

Peter  walked  back  to  his  cottage  with  his  mind 
in  a  turmoil. 

It  had  been  utterly,  entirely  different  from 
the  scene  he  had  pictured  to  himself.  He  had 
not  swaggered,  he  had  not  stepped  on  to  his 
platform  with  an  air  of  assurance.  Something 
had  gripped  him,  something  indefinable  and 
powerful,  and  he — Peter — had  lost  the  strength 
to  assert  his  own  personality. 

It  had  been  there,  sure  enough,  but  swayed, 


A  Concert — and  After  113 

dominated,  by  something  outside,  beyond  him. 
It  had  come  out  from  himself,  forced  out,  it 
would  seem,  into  the  music  of  his  piping.  He 
had  played  himself,  his  own  story,  to  this  woman 
on  whom  he  had  never  before  set  eyes. 

Yet  did  he  not  know  her?  Had  he  never 
before  seen  her?  Peter  searched  the  recesses  of 
his  memory,  penetrating  to  its  remotest  corners, 
but  with  no  avail. 

No;  in  spite  of  all  searching  memory  remained 
a  blank.  Instinct,  intuition — call  it  what  you 
will — said,  "You  know  this  woman."  Reason 
said  as  firmly,  "You  do  not." 

He  had  reached  his  cottage  by  now.  He  went  in 
and  shut  the  door.  He  would  work.  He  wanted 
to  soothe  his  mind.  He  would  throw  himself  into 
the  quiet  calm  thoughts  of  his  Wanderer. 

He  pulled  paper,  pen,  and  ink  towards  him 
and  turned  resolutely  to  his  manuscript.  For 
over  an  hour  he  sat  with  it  before  him,  then 
suddenly  realized  that  he  had  written  no  single 
word.  It  was  useless  to  attempt  to  write  in  this 
mood.  A  vague  unrest  was  upon  him. 

Peter  pushed  the  papers  aside,  and  leaving  the 
cottage,  set  off  to  walk  across  the  moorland. 


CHAPTER  XII 

A  DISCLOSURE 

The  Unknown  Critic  to  Robin  Adair 

"THE  TERRACE, 
"June  8th. 

"HERE,  Robin  Adair,  is  a  night-stock  from  be- 
low my  terrace.  I  enclose  it  while  it  is  white 
and  fragrant.  It  will  reach  you  brown  and 
shrivelled;  but,  as  you  say,  less  shrivelled  than 
my  letter  would  have  been — in  fact,  as  it  now 
is.  It  lies  on  the  terrace  beside  me,  a  little 
heap  of  grey  powdered  ashes.  This  flower  is  its 
resurrected  form.  It  is  slighter,  subtler,  more 
fragrant  than  that  letter.  I  began  to  re-read  it, 
but  did  not  get  far;  it  was  too  serious,  Robin 
Adair. 

"I  am,  as  the  above  will  have  told  you,  writing 
from  my  terrace  in  the  cool  of  the  evening.     A 

"4 


A  Disclosure  115 

lamp  in  the  window  of  my  morning-room  affords 
me  light.  The  sky  is  grey-blue,  and  away  in  the 
west,  Venus,  who  is  an  evening  star  at  the  moment, 
is  shining  calm  and  peaceful. 

"I  had  a  concert  on  this  very  terrace  yester- 
day afternoon.  A  so-called  vagabond  piped  to 
me,  wearing  shabby  clothes  and  a  peacock  feather 
in  his  hat.  .  .  ." 

Peter  laid  down  the  letter  a  moment.  His 
brain  was  whirling.  Not  even  on  the  receipt 
of  the  first  letter  from  his  Lady  had  it  whirled 
with  such  rapidity.  Here,  then,  was  the  explana- 
tion. Of  course,  he  had  known  her  before.  He 
had  had  glimpses  of  her  mind,  her  soul,  her  delicate 
fanciful  imaginings.  She  had  embodied  suddenly 
before  him,  and  unconsciously  his  soul  had  rec- 
ognized her,  though  reason  had  urged  to  the  con- 
trary. It  was  incredible,  marvellous !  In  actual 
everyday  life  such  things  did  not  happen.  Yet 
here  was  the  proof  thereof,  finely,  clearly  traced 
with  black  ink  on  a  sheet  of  bluish  note-paper. 

He  picked  up  the  letter  again,  and  began  to  read 
further. 

"It    was    a    wonderful    concert.     Music    has 


n6  The  Peacock  Feather 

never  before  so  stirred,  so  moved  me.  Picture 
to  yourself  an  ordinary  penny  whistle,  from 
which  divine  music  was  produced.  He  told  a 
life-story  in  his  piping,  yet  fragmentary  sentences 
alone  reached  me.  It  was  as  if  I  were  reading 
a  book  in  a  language  of  which  I  knew  but  a  few 
words.  Can  you  understand? 

"What  there  was  in  the  first  part  of  his  theme, 
I  know  not;  but  he,  that  strolling  player,  had 
suffered.  Part  of  his  theme  beat  and  struggled 
for  liberty  like  a  caged  bird,  or  like  an  imprisoned 
mind — a  fettered  expression.  And  when  the  ex- 
pression, the  liberty  came — that  was  what  hurt 
— it  was  smashed,  broken.  Can  you  picture  a 
caged  skylark,  longing,  pining  for  liberty,  then 
seeing  the  cage  door  open,  and  flying  forth  into 
the  sunlight,  its  throat  bursting  with  rapture, 
only  to  find  itself  seized  by  some  ruthless  hand, 
wings  torn  from  its  body?  Yet  the  bird  was  not 
dead;  there  was  the  horror.  It  lay  still,  bleeding, 
apparently  lifeless,  then  lifted  its  head.  Maimed 
though  it  was,  it  would  still  sing;  and  its  song 
should  be  no  complaint,  but  one  to  encourage  and 
cheer  all  other  injured  things.  I  could  have  wept 
for  the  pluck,  the  courage  of  the  little  creature. 


A  Disclosure  117 

And  after  a  time  it  began  to  grow  wings — little 
young  wings  that  carried  it  just  above  the  earth 
into  the  open  it  loved.  It  was  only  a  little  way, 
but  it  meant  such  a  lot  to  that  skylark.  It  was 
here,  at  the  end,  that  the  music  spoke  most 
directly  to  my  heart.  The  song  the  partially 
healed  skylark  sang  seemed  to  be  sung  for  me 
alone,  and  yet  here  the  translation  of  the  words 
most  failed  me. 

"The  man  is  an  artist.  I  wish  he  would  play 
for  me  again.  Yet  I  dare  no  more  ask  him  now 
than  I  would  dare  ask  Sarasate  to  come  to  my 
terrace  and  play. 

"He — this  piper — is  living  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  village,  in  a  cottage  reputed  to  be  haunted. 
Doubtless  he  has  charmed  and  soothed  the  rest- 
less spirits  by  his  piping.  This  is  a  great  deal 
to  write  to  you  regarding  an  unknown  strolling 
player — though  he  is  not  strolling  now — but  the 
man  himself  is  unusual,  while  his  music  is  superb. 
He  struck  me  as  one  of  gentle  birth.  His  speech 
was  educated,  and  his  whole  appearance,  in  spite 
of  his  shabby  clothes,  refined.  I  am  sure  he  has  a 
story — one,  Robin  Adair,  that  might  be  worthy 
of  your  pen. 


n8  The  Peacock  Feather 

"  My  companion — a  dear,  but  very  old-fashioned 
— resented  his  behaviour.  She  thought  he  did 
not  treat  me  with  sufficient  respect,  mainly  be- 
cause he  did  not  jump  at  the  proposal  of  playing 
to  me  again.  I  did  suggest  I  should  like  to  hear 
him;  but  to  send  for  him  again,  to  send  a  footman 
to  fetch  him  as  I  did  before,  would  be  impossible. 
I  hope  Burton  delivered  my  message  nicely.  I 
worded  it  courteously,  at  all  events. 

"How  goes  your  Wanderer,  and  are  his  thoughts 
progressing?  That  you  should  dedicate  those 
thoughts  to  me  pleases  me  immensely.  I  think 
it  an  honour  that  you  should  care  to  do  so. 

"I  am  glad  you  did  not  burn  my  letter.  I  am 
glad  you  cared  enough  about  it — poor  dull  thing 
though  it  was — to  refuse  to  do  so.  I  did  not 
mean  to  say  this  to  you,  yet  I  have. 

"Good-night." 

Peter  (alias  Robin  Adair)  to  the  Unknown  Critic, 
whom  he  now  knows   to  be  the  Lady  Anne 

Garland 

"June  loih. 

"DEAR  LADY, — I  am  in  a  contrary  frame  of 
mind  to-night.  I  want  to  write  to  you,  yet  am 
in  no  mood  to  do  so. 


A  Disclosure  119 

"I  have  met  your  vagabond  piper,  and  know 
him  more  intimately  than  you  might  suppose. 
He  is  an  impostor,  though  a  harmless  one,  I 
grant.  His  music  is  not  bad,  but  I  doubt  his 
playing  to  you  again.  The  fellow  has  a  good 
conceit  of  himself. 

"After  all,  I  find  I  cannot  write  to-night. 
Thank  you  for  the  flower. 

"  ROBIN  ADAIR." 

The  Unknown  Critic  to  Robin  Adair 

"THE  TERRACE, 
"June  i8th. 

"Why  are  you  so  hard  on  my  Piper?  I  do  not 
believe  he  is  an  impostor.  And  as  for  his  music 
being  not  bad!  Robin  Adair,  are  you  one  'who 
has  no  music  in  him,  and  is  not  moved  by  concord 
of  sweet  sounds,'  or  in  what  way  has  this  man 
vexed  you?  The  latter  I  believe  to  be  the  solu- 
tion, Robin  Adair,  and  it  is  not  worthy  of  you. 
But  I  will  not  write  more  of  him.  I  have  not  seen 
him  again,  and  the  villagers  speak  of  him  with 
bated  breath  as  a  friend  of  the  Evil  One.  If  he 
were  of  my  faith,  I  would  ask  Father  Lestrange,  a 
kindly  man,  to  call  at  the  cottage.  But  as  he 


120  The  Peacock  Feather 

never  hears  Mass  he  is  evidently  of  another  way  of 
thinking,  and  might  regard  the  visit  as  an  intru- 
sion. And  for  some  reason  he  desires  solitude. 
One  dare  not  therefore  intrude.  I  feel,  however, 
that  he  is  lonely,  and  have  had,  perhaps  foolishly, 
a  desire  to  lessen  that  loneliness. 

"The  country  is  very  peaceful  after  London, 
and  I  am  revelling  in  my  flowers,  more  especially 
my  roses.  They  are  adoring  this  unwavering 
sunshine  and  the  warm  nights.  The  gardeners 
keep  their  roots  well  watered,  so  they  — the  roses — 
do  not  suffer  from  thirst. 

"I  had  a  letter  from  a  friend  of  mine  the  other 
day,  a  woman  with  a  surplus  of  relations  all  eager 
and  willing  to  offer  good  advice  and  to  point  out 
various  neat  and  narrow  little  paths  in  which  she 
should  walk  and  from  which  her  soul  recoils. 
After  remarking  on  their  latest  suggestions,  she 
writes  succinctly:  'The  patience  of  Job  was  over- 
estimated. His  relations  died.' 

"Why  are  some  people  so  sure  that  their  plan  is 
the  right  one,  and  why  cannot  they  allow  others 
to  go  their  own  way,  provided,  of  course,  the  way 
does  not  run  strictly  counter  to  the  law?  In  that 
case,  of  course,  there  might  be  complications. 


A  Disclosure  121 

"Am  I  being  very  unoriginal  when  I  lament 
the  little  originality  there  is  in  the  world,  or,  at 
all  events,  in  that  portion  of  it  which  I  know? 
And  what  little  there  is,  is  so  frequently  mere 
eccentricity.  I  believe  some  people  would  call 
it  original  to  discard  one's  clothes  and  walk  down 
Bond  Street  in  war-paint  and  feathers,  though 
certainly  there  would  be  a  large  majority  who 
would  call  it  merely  indecent,  and  in  that  case  the 
majority  would  doubtless  be  right.  I  believe  I 
am  in  a  discontented  mood  this  afternoon.  There 
is  a  discord  somewhere  in  my  harmonies. 

"Are  you  in  a  better  mood  for  recording  the 
thoughts  of  your  Wanderer  than  for  writing  to 
me?  I  hope  so.  I  am  looking  forward  to  read- 
ing them.  I  want  something  to  soothe  me.  In 
spite  of  the  peace  that  lies  around  me — the  quiet 
peace  of  Nature — I  am  restless. 

"Write  to  me,  Robin  Adair;  tell  me  of  your 
Wanderer." 

Robin  Adair  to  his  one  time  Unknown  Critic,  or 
Peter  the  Piper  to  the  Lady  Anne  Garland 

"June  20th. 
"  DEAR  LADY, — I  was  churlish  when  I  last  wrote. 


122  The  Peacock  Feather 

I  know  more  of  your  Piper  than  you  suppose. 
Do  not  write  to  me  of  him,  I  beg. 

"As  for  my  Wanderer,  he  has  escaped  me.  I 
intended  to  keep  him  entirely  to  the  fields  and 
lanes,  but  he  is  off  now  to  a  hilltop.  He  has 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  star,  and  thinks  to  gain 
a  closer  vision  of  it  from  the  hill.  Poor  fool! 
What  will  the  height  of  an  ant-heap  advantage 
him?  There  are  millions  of  miles  between  him 
and  the  star.  On  the  hill  he  will  be  restless  and 
miserable  that  he  is  no  nearer.  Why  could  he 
not  keep  his  eyes  to  the  attainable? — the  wayside 
flowers,  the  green  leaves  of  the  hedges,  all  that 
which  is  common  property  to  prince  and  peasant 
alike. 

"Long  ago  in  his  past— I  told  you  he  had  a 
past  which  he  had  thrown  behind  him — he  cut 
himself  off  from  communion  with  his  fellowmen. 
He  did  not  realize  at  the  moment  how  complete 
the  severance  would  be;  yet,  if  he  had,  I  believe 
he  would  have  acted  as  he  did.  There  seemed 
then  nothing  else  that  he  could  do ;  even  now  there 
appears  to  him  nothing  else.  Maybe  he  made  a 
great  mistake.  If  he  did,  he  did  not  suffer  alone, 
there  were  others  who  suffered  too;  there's  the 


A  Disclosure  123 

rub.  He  did  not  realize  that  they  would  suffer. 
His  optimism  in  human  nature  was  too  great. 
Now  he  realizes  that  there  are  only  the  fields  and 
roads  for  him,  only  the  companionship  of  birds, 
beasts,  and  flowers,  to  whom  his  past  is  unknown 
and  can  never  be  disclosed.  His  wings  were  torn 
from  him  like  the  wings  of  that  skylark  of  which 
your  vagabond  Piper  piped.  True,  he,  too,  grew 
new  wings  with  which  he  could  rise  just  far  enough 
above  the  earth  to  see  the  star.  But  he  can 
never  reach  it,  and,  unlike  your  skylark,  he  can- 
not sing  cheerfully.  Perhaps  before  he  saw  the 
star  he  might  have  done  so,  but  now  his  song  lacks 
buoyancy. 

"I  fancy  I  shall  have  to  leave  him  for  a  while 
gazing  disconsolately  at  his  star,  and  start  a 
new  book.  He  has  endowed  me  with  too  much 
of  his  present  mood,  and  who  will  care  to  hear 
the  pinings  of  a  wanderer  for  the  unattainable? 
I  might  bring  him  from  the  hilltop,  blot  out  the 
star  from  the  sky.  I  have,  indeed,  already  tried 
to  do  so,  but  my  Wanderer  has  moped  and 
sulked.  That  is  the  worst  of  these  fiction  people. 
You  feed  them  with  your  heart's  blood,  you  give 
them  life  of  your  life  that  they  may  move  as  living 


124  The  Peacock  Feather 

creatures  and  not  as  mere  puppets  pulled  by 
strings,  and  suddenly  they  escape  you.  The 
path  you  have  carefully  chosen,  in  which  they  are 
to  tread,  is  refused  by  them.  '  It  is  the  way  you 
have  chosen,'  they  will  cry,  'not  the  way  we 
choose!'  And  if  you  protest  that  their  path 
will  be  of  little  interest  to  the  public,  they  sulk, 
insisting  that,  interest  or  no  interest,  it  is  the 
true  path.  I  will  leave  this  flesh  and  blood 
creature  on  the  hilltop.  If  he  bewails  the  dis- 
tance of  his  star  from  him,  I  will  not  record  his 
wailings.  I  will  fashion  a  puppet,  and  merely 
a  puppet,  and  from  first  to  last  chapter  I  will 
pull  the  strings  myself. 

"Therefore  I  fear  that  the  thoughts  of  my 
Wanderer  will  never  be  printed  to  soothe  you, 
nor,  I  fear,  can  I  be  of  much  use  in  the  matter. 
I  told  you  he  had  endowed  me  with  his  thoughts. 
I  might  be  the  man  himself.  He  has  obsessed 
me.  I  tell  myself  that  I  will  look  at  his  star  and 
worship  it  from  afar,  thankful  for  its  benign  rays. 
But  his  restlessness  is  upon  me.  I  want  to  get 
near  it,  though  I  recognize  the  futility  of  my 
desire.  I  am  a  fool. 

"May  I  take  your  friend,  with  her  many  rela- 


A  Disclosure  125 

tions,  as  the  puppet  for  my  next  story?  I  will 
pull  the  strings  deftly,  and  she  shall  dance  away 
from  them  or  frolic  on  their  mangled  corpses. 
Which  think  you  she  would  prefer? 

"I  find  that  again  my  mood  for  letter- writing 
is  not  of  the  most  cheerful. 

"  Good-night. 

"ROBIN  ADAIR." 

The  Unknown  Critic  to  Robin  Adair,  or  the  Lady 
Anne  Garland  to  Peter  the  Piper 

"THE  TERRACE, 
"June  2yth. 

"DEAR  ROBIN  ADAIR, — What  is  it,  I  wonder, 
that  has  disturbed  us  both?  Some  small  and 
unpleasant  breeze  has  ruffled  the  surface  of 
our  mind's  lake.  Yet  your  course  seems  clear. 
Since  your  Wanderer  desires  his  star,  let  him 
attain  it.  Let  him  build  a  ladder  of  moonbeams 
and  climb  up  to  it,  or  if  he  is  too  much  flesh  and 
blood,  too  material,  for  such  a  feat,  let  the  star 
descend  to  him.  Are  there  not  falling  stars? 

"Since  writing  last  I  have  had  a  letter  from 
a  friend  of  mine.  She  is  not  well,  and  is  feeling 
lonely.  I  go  to  town  next  Thursday  to  stay 


126  The  Peacock  Feather 

with  her  for  three  weeks,  till  her  sister-in-law 
can  come  and  join  her.  Perhaps  when  I  return 
I  shall  have  regained  my  old  calm.  At  all  events, 
the  stir,  the  movement  of  London  will  serve  to 
shake  me  out  of  this  mood,  which  I  cannot  define, 
but  which  is  foreign  to  my  nature. 

"I  wish  the  vagabond  Piper  would  give  me 
another  concert  before  I  go,  but  I  dare  not  ask 
him." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A   MOONLIGHT   PIPING 

LADY  ANNE  GARLAND  was  sitting  by  her  bed- 
room window.  It  was  wide  open,  and  the  per- 
fume of  the  night-stocks  below  the  terrace  rose 
fragrant  in  the  still  air.  The  atmosphere  was 
darkly  luminous,  blue  and  purple,  in  which  the 
shapes  of  the  trees  and  bushes  stood  out  softly 
black  in  the  light  of  a  half-moon. 

Away  across  the  park,  with  its  scattered  oaks 
and  beeches,  she  could  see  masses  of  woodland 
lying  like  dark  patches  on  the  distant  hills.  In 
the  valley  the  lights  in  the  cottages  had  been 
extinguished.  One  by  one  they  had  dropped 
into  the  darkness,  and  now  the  whole  village 
lay  asleep. 

Anne  leaned  her  arms  on  the  window-sill  and 
looked  out  into  the  night.  She  had  not  yet 
begun  to  prepare  for  bed,  and  she  still  wore  the 
silver-grey  dress  she  had  put  on  for  dinner. 

127 


128  The  Peacock  Feather 

The  light  from  two  candles  on  the  dressing- 
table  behind  her  illumined  the  room,  glinting 
on  silver-backed  brushes  and  silver-topped  bottles. 
The  walls  of  the  room  were  white,  and  above  the 
bed  hung  an  ebony  crucifix  with  a  silver  Figure. 
The  black  cross  stood  out  in  startling  relief  on 
the  white  wall-paper.  A  table  beside  her  bed 
held  a  bowl  of  crimson  roses,  an  unlighted  reading- 
lamp,  and  a  green-covered  book,  the  title  printed 
in  gold  letters.  Between  the  leaves  was  an  ivory 
paper-cutter.  The  leaves,  however,  had  long 
since  been  cut;  and  for  the  sixth — the  seventh — 
time  Anne  was  reading  Under  the  Span  of  the 
Rainbow. 

Suddenly  Anne's  ear  was  arrested  by  a  sound 
— a  faint  sound,  but  the  unmistakable  crunch  of 
feet  on  gravel.  The  sound  came  from  the  drive. 
She  drew  back  into  the  room,  extinguishing 
one  candle  and  moving  the  other  so  that  its 
light  did  not  illumine  the  square  of  open  window. 
Then  from  behind  the  curtain  she  watched  and 
listened. 

The  sound  of  the  feet  drew  nearer,  and  a 
man  emerged  from  the  shadow  of  the  trees  in 
the  drive.  He  walked  unfalteringly.  It  was 


A  Moonlight  Piping  129 

not  the  wary  approach  of  one  who  fears  to  be 
seen. 

Below  the  terrace  he  halted.  Anne  quickly 
extinguished  the  second  candle,  and  leant  a  little 
from  her  hiding-place  by  the  curtain.  The  man 
looked  up,  the  moonlight  falling  full  on  his  face, 
and  Anne  saw  that  it  was  Peter  the  Piper.  Her 
breath  came  quickly  and  she  watched,  herself 
unseen. 

She  saw  him  lift  his  pipe  to  his  lips,  and  then 
the  still  night  became  full  of  music.  This  time 
Anne  made  no  attempt  to  classify  his  theme — 
to  read  a  story  in  the  melody.  Probably  it  held 
none.  It  was  music — music  pure  and  simple, 
which  the  Piper  was  playing  for  her  alone. 

Breathless,  entranced,  she  stood  and  listened. 
Surely  never  was  such  a  piping  since  King  Midas 
of  old  listened  to  the  flutes  of  Pan.  It  was  truly 
Nature's  music,  the  instrument  which  produced 
it  forgotten.  Liquid,  caressing,  it  rose  and  fell 
in  soft  cadences,  yet  faintly  through  it  throbbed 
the  under-note  of  pain. 

How  long  it  lasted  Anne  did  not  know.  Sud- 
denly there  was  a  pause.  Then  came  the  night- 
ingale's song,  one  short  phrase  of  pure  rapture. 

9 


130  The  Peacock  Feather 

Then  silence.  Anne  saw  Peter  standing  still  in 
the  moonlight. 

On  a  sudden  impulse  she  moved  and  pulled  a 
half-blown  crimson  rose  from  the  bowl  on  the 
table  near  her  bed.  She  threw  it  from  the 
window  and  saw  it  fall  at  his  feet.  She  saw  him 
stoop  and  raise  it  from  the  ground  to  his  lips. 
He  looked  up,  and  once  more  she  saw  his  face. 

Anne  turned  swiftly  into  the  room.  A  moment 
later  there  was  again  the  sound  of  feet  on  the 
gravel,  a  clear,  crisp  crunching  which  receded 
in  the  distance. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

LE  BEAU  MONDE 

LADY  ANNE  GARLAND  was  sitting  in  Mrs. 
Cresswell's  drawing-room.  It  was  a  charming 
room,  with  its  domed  ceiling,  its  panelled  walls, 
its  long  windows,  its  curtains  and  brocades  of 
dull  orange  and  glowing  brown,  with  its  porce- 
lains, its  bronzes,  and  its  masses  of  yellow  and 
white  roses  in  old  china  bowls  and  slender  glasses. 
Anne  herself,  in  a  dress  of  some  gleaming 
material,  pale  primrose  in  colour,  was  sitting 
on  an  Empire  sofa.  The  warm  brown  of  its 
brocade  made  a  delightful  harmony  with  the 
colour  of  her  dress — in  fact,  she  looked  entirely 
in  keeping  with  her  surroundings.  A  white- 
haired  man,  with  blue  eyes  and  wearing  fault- 
less evening  clothes,  was  sitting  on  the  sofa  beside 
her;  and  Anne  was  asking  herself  where  in  the 
name  of  wonder  she  had  seen  him  before.  Some- 

131 


132  The  Peacock  Feather 

thing  in  his  manner  seemed  familiar,  or  was  it, 
perhaps,  his  eyes,  his  keen  old  blue  eyes  under 
their  shaggy  eyebrows?  He  had  been  introduced 
to  her  early  in  the  evening,  and  somehow  there 
had  seemed  at  once  a  curious  and  indefinable 
sympathy  between  them,  one  which  had  sprung 
to  life  with  the  first  conventional  words  they 
had  uttered.  Throughout  the  evening  he  had 
monopolized  her — unquestionably  monopolized 
her — yet  entirely  without  appearing  to  do  so. 
And  over  and  over  again  Anne  was  asking  herself 
when  and  where  she  had  seen  him  before. 

She  glanced  at  him  now  as  she  slowly  waved 
her  fan — a  delicate  thing  of  mother-of-pearl  and 
fine  old  cobwebby  lace  softly  yellow  with  age. 
Anne  possessed  the  trick  of  fan-waving  in  its 
subtlest  form,  a  trick — or  art — she  had  inherited 
from  an  ancestor  of  more  than  a  century  ago,  one 
Dolores  di  Mendova,  a  very  noted  beauty  of 
the  Spanish  court,  from  whom  Anne  had  also 
inherited  her  hair,  her  creamy  skin,  and  her 
panther-like  grace. 

General  Garden  turned  and  saw  that  she  was 
watching  him.  A  faint  rose  colour  tinged  the 
ivory  of  Anne's  face. 


Le  Beau  Monde  133 

"I  was  wondering,"  she  said,  explanatory, 
"where  it  was  that  I  had  seen  you  before." 

General  Garden  smiled,  a  gay  old  smile.  "I 
can  tell  you  where  I  have  seen  you,  though 
whether  you  have  deigned  to  notice  me  is  quite 
another  matter." 

"Yes?"  queried  Anne  the  fan  fluttering  to 
and  fro. 

"I  have  frequently  seen  you  driving  in  the 
Park,"  said  General  Garden.  "You  in  your 
carriage,  I  in  my  car." 

"Yes?"  mused  Anne,  still  doubtful. 

"You  do  not  remember?"  asked  General 
Garden.  He  was  frankly  disappointed. 

"On  the  contrary,  I  remember  perfectly.  I 
confess  I  had  forgotten  the  fact  till  you 
mentioned  it.  Yet  somehow  it  does  not  quite 
explain — "  She  broke  off. 

"Explain?"  asked  General  Garden. 

Anne  laughed.  "Explain  the  quite  absurd 
notion  that  I  have  actually  spoken  to  you  before. 
Something  in  your  manner,  your  speech,  seems 
almost  familiar.  I  fancied  I  must  have  known 
you — not  intimately,  of  course,  but  slightly." 

"I  fear,"  he  regretted,  "that  I  have  not  had 


134  The  Peacock  Feather 

that  pleasure.  I  shall  hope  now  to  be  able  to 
make  up  for  my  previous  loss.  You  live  in 
town?" 

"The  greater  part  of  the  year,"  said  Anne. 
"I  spend  three  or  four  months  in  the  country." 

"Which,  no  doubt,  you  like,"  replied  General 
Garden  courteously.  "Being  young,  you  are 
able  to  enjoy  it.  I  prefer  London.  I  only  leave 
town  during  August,  when  I  go  abroad.  And 
the  whole  time  I  wish  I  were  in  England.  An 
unprofitable  method  of  spending  a  yearly  month 
of  one's  life.  Once  I—"  He  broke  off.  "I 
am  too  old  for  travelling  now, "  he  ended. 

"Isn't  that  rather — nonsense?"  said  Anne, 
with  a  faint  hint  of  a  smile,  and  glancing  at 
the  upright  figure  beside  her. 

General  Garden  straightened  his  shoulders. 
She  was  candid — absolutely  candid — in  her 
remark. 

"Very  charming  of  you  to  suggest  it,  Lady 
Anne,"  he  said,  and  he  tried  unavailingly  to 
keep  the  pleasure  out  of  his  voice.  "Perhaps 
after  all " 

"Yes,"  smiled  Anne,  "after  all,  you  don't  find 
it  quite  as  disagreeable  as  you  pretend." 


Le  Beau  Monde  135 

"Ah,  well!  "he  said. 

There  was  a  pleasant  little  silence.  Anne 
watched  the  groups  of  people  in  the  room,  sit- 
ting or  standing  in  intimate  conversation.  There 
was  an  atmosphere  of  airy  gaiety  about  the 
place,  a  lightness,  an  effervescence.  Listlessness 
or  boredom  was  entirely  absent.  In  one  of  the 
farthest  groups  was  her  friend,  Muriel  Lancing, 
with  whom  she  was  staying.  She  was  an  elfin- 
like,  dainty  figure  in  a  green  dress,  on  which 
shone  a  brilliant  gleam  of  diamonds.  Muriel 
herself  was  sparkling  to-night  like  a  bit  of  escaped 
quicksilver. 

Rather  nearer  was  another  woman,  tall  and 
massive.  Her  figure  was  undoubtedly  good, 
but  her  pose  gave  one  the  faintest  suspicion  that 
she  was  conscious  of  that  fact.  She  reminded 
one  of  a  statue  which  had  become  slightly  ani- 
mated by  some  accident.  Apparently,  too,  she 
had  never  forgotten  the  fact  of  having  been  a 
statue,  and  wished  other  people  not  to  forget 
it  either.  Her  face  was  a  faultless  oval,  and 
her  hair  worn  in  a  Madonna-like  style.  But 
beyond  the  oval  and  the  hair  the  Madonna-like 
impression  ceased.  Her  face  was  hard,  there 


136  The  Peacock  Feather 

was  none  of  the  exquisite  warmth,  the  tender 
humanity  seen  in  the  paintings  of  the  Virgin 
Mother. 

General  Garden  was  also  looking  at  Mrs. 
Sheldon,  whom,  it  may  be  remembered,  he  had 
seen  on  a  previous  occasion  in  the  Park,  a  day 
now  three  or  four  weeks  old.  Anne  noticed  the 
direction  of  his  glance. 

"Do  you  know  her?"  she  asked  suddenly, 
then  added  as  an  afterthought,  "She  is  a  friend 
of  mine."  Anne  did  not  state  that  it  was  a 
friendship  of  only  two  years'  standing,  and  one 
which  existed  infinitely  more  on  Mrs.  Sheldon's 
side  than  on  her  own. 

"I  once  had  the  honour  of  knowing  her  fairly 
intimately,"  replied  General  Garden.  "We  still 
exchange  bows  and  civil  speeches,  but — well, 
I  fancy  I  remind  her  of  an  episode  she  wishes  to 
forget — a  perfectly  unimpeachable  little  episode 
as  far  as  she  was  concerned,  of  course." 

Anne  glanced  at  him  sideways.  There  was 
almost  a  hard  note  in  his  voice,  which  had  not 
escaped  her.  She  saw  his  profile  clean-cut 
against  the  dark  panelling  of  the  room.  And 
then  a  sudden  little  light  of  illumination  sprang 


Le  Beau  Monde  137 

to  her  eyes.  She  had  all  at  once  discovered  of 
whom  it  was  he  reminded  her.  There  was  in 
his  fine  old  face  a  very  distinct  look  of  the  vaga- 
bond Piper.  It  was  one  of  those  indefinable 
likenesses  which  nevertheless  exist,  at  all  events 
in  the  eyes  of  those  who  chance  to  see  it.  It 
was  faint,  elusive,  and  to  the  majority  it  pro- 
bably would  not  be  the  least  apparent,  but  Anne 
now  knew  that  it  was  this  which  had  puzzled  her 
throughout  the  evening. 

And  with  the  discovery  came  a  sudden  mental 
picture  of  a  man  standing  in  the  moonlight  with 
a  crimson  rose  against  his  lips.  It  was  a  picture 
that  had  presented  itself  many  times  to  her 
mental  vision  during  the  last  few  days,  and  as 
many  times  had  been  dismissed.  It  was  apt 
to  make  her  heart  beat  a  trifle  faster,  to  make 
the  warm  colour  surge  faintly  to  her  face.  Being 
unable — or  unwilling — to  account  for  a  certain 
picturesque,  if  too  impetuous,  impulse  which 
had  moved  her  that  moonlight  night,  she  wished 
to  forget  it.  Yet  it  had  a  disturbing  way  of  re- 
presenting itself  before  her  mind. 

In  banishing  it  now  her  thoughts  turned  into 
another  trend,  which  was  apt  to  absorb  them 


138  The  Peacock  Feather 

quite  a  good  deal,  the  thought  of  that  writer 
of  letters  and  books — Robin  Adair.  Anne  was 
perfectly  aware  that  this  unknown  writer  occupied 
a  large  amount  of  her  mind;  it  swung  and  see- 
sawed between  him  and  the  vagabond  Piper  in  a 
way  that  was  almost  uncomfortable  and  altogether 
unaccountable.  She  was  not  accustomed  to  have 
her  thoughts  encroached  on  in  this  way  without 
her  will  being  consulted,  and  she  could  not  under- 
stand it,  or  she  told  herself  that  she  could  not 
understand  it,  and  that  possibly  came  to  the  same 
thing.  At  all  events,  she  was  undoubtedly  in  a 
slight  puzzlement  of  mind.  It  is  the  only  word 
to  describe  her  vaguely  perplexed  state.  As  now 
Robin  Adair  had  swung  uppermost,  his  book 
presented  itself  to  her  as  a  subject  of  conversation. 

She  asked  General  Garden  if  he  had  read  it. 
She  fancied — it  was  probably  pure  fancy — that 
he  started  slightly.  He  glanced,  too,  at  Mrs. 
Cresswell,  who  was  only  a  few  paces  away  and 
quite  possibly  within  earshot. 

"Ah,  yes,"  he  replied  indifferently.  "Mrs. 
Cresswell  recommended  it  to  me — a  fairly  pro- 
mising book,  I  thought."  He  was  adhering 
faithfully  to  the  expression. 


Le  Beau  Monde  139 

"Fairly  promising!"  Anne's  voice  held  a  note 
akin  to  indignation.  "I  thought  it  delightful; 
clever,  cultured,  quite  admirably  written." 

General  Garden  experienced  a  sensation  which 
might  be  described  as  a  glow  of  satisfaction. 
"Isn't  that,"  he  said,  "rather  high  praise?" 

"Not  an  atom  more  than  the  book  deserves!" 
responded  Anne  warmly.  "And  the  reviews  on 
it — I  saw  two  or  three — were  excellent." 

"Indeed!"  said  General  Garden  politely.  The 
old  hypocrite  had  no  mind  to  mention  that  every 
review  ever  penned  on  it  was  now  lying  safely 
locked  in  his  desk,  that  he  knew  them  all  nearly 
verbatim,  that  he  had  gloated  over  them,  exulted 
over  them  though  with  many  a  little  stab  of  pain 
in  the  region  called  the  heart. 

"Of  course,"  pursued  Anne  thoughtfully,  "it 
isn't  merely  a  surface  book,  full  of  adventure, 
movement,  and  incident;  and  what  incident 
there  is  might  be  termed  improbable  by  those 
who  don't  realize  that  nothing  is  improbable, 
nothing  impossible.  It's  in  its  style,  its  finish,  its 
— its  texture  that  the  charm  and  beauty  of  it 
He." 

"It  has  certainly  some  well-turned  phrases," 


140  The  Peacock  Feather 

conceded  General  Garden  magnanimously.  He 
liked  her  to  talk  about  the  book;  he  longed  for 
her  to  continue,  though  for  the  life  of  him  he 
could  not  give  her  a  lead.  Yet  his  grudging 
admiration — all  a  pretence  though  it  was,  though 
Anne  could  not  know  that — fired  her  to  further 
defence  of  the  writing,  stimulated  her  to  fresh 
praise. 

"There  are  delightful  phrases!"  she  said 
emphatically.  "It  is  a  modern  book,  yet  with 
all  the  delicacy,  the  refinement,  the  porcelain-air 
of  the  old  school.  For  all  that  the  scenes  are 
laid  mainly  in  the  open,  and  are,  as  I  said,  quite 
modern;  it  breathes  an  old-world  grace,  a  kind 
of  powder-and-patches  charm,  which  makes  one 
feel  that  the  writer  must  have  imbibed  the  finish, 
the  courtesy  of  the  old  school  from  his  cradle,  as 
if  it  must  have  come  to  him  as  a  birthright,  an 
inheritance." 

General  Garden  drew  himself  up.  His  blue 
eyes  were  shining.  "Your  praise  of  the  book," 
he  said,  "is  delightful.  The  author" — his  eyes 
grew  suddenly  sad — "would,  I  am  sure,  be 
honoured  if  he  knew  your  opinion." 

Anne  flushed.     Did  he  not  know?     Had  she 


Le  Beau  Monde  141 

not  told  him?  Though  perhaps  not  in  those 
very  words. 

"It  does  surprise  me,"  she  allowed,  after  a 
second's  pause,  "that  you  are  not  more  enthusi- 
astic about  it.  I  should  have  fancied  some- 
how— slightly  as  I  know  you — that  it  would  have 
entirely  appealed  to  you." 

General  Garden  gave  a  little  cough.  "It  does 
appeal  to  me,"  he  said.  "If  appeals  to  me 
greatly — so  much,  in  fact,  that  I  assumed  a 
certain  disparagement  in  order  that  I  might 
have  the  pleasure  of  hearing  you  refute  me." 
He  had  forgotten  Mrs.  Cresswell,  but  the  words 
had  not  escaped  her,  absorbed  though  she  ap- 
peared to  be  in  conversation,  and  there  was  the 
tiniest — the  very  tiniest — expression  of  triumph 
in  her  eyes. 

"Oh!"  said  Anne,  at  once  puzzled  and  debating. 
And  then  she  said,  "I  am  longing  to  read  his 
next  book." 

"He  has  not  published  another,  then?"  queried 
General  Garden  carelessly.  Double-faced  that 
he  was,  he  knew  perfectly  well  that  no  second 
book  had  appeared  as  yet.  Had  he  not  advised 
Mudie's — naturally  not  in  Mrs.  Cresswell's 


142  The  Peacock  Feather 

presence — to  supply  him  with  a  copy  the  moment 
one  appeared? 

"No,"  replied  Anne.  And  she  stopped.  Had 
not  Robin  Adair  himself  told  her  that  his  Wanderer 
had  escaped  him,  and  Heaven  knew  whether  he 
would  ever  again  be  caught,  chained,  fettered,  and 
imprisoned  in  the  pages  and  between  the  covers 
of  a  book? 

Later  in  the  evening  General  Garden,  taking 
his  departure,  said  to  Anne,  "I  should  like  to 
have  the  honour  of  calling  on  you,  if  you  will 
allow  me  to  do  so." 

And  Anne  replied:  "I  should  be  quite  de- 
lighted. I  am  staying  now  with  Mrs.  Lancing, 
and  go  down  to  the  country  in  a  few  days,  but 
I  shall  return  to  town  to  my  own  house  in  the 
autumn." 

"In  the  autumn,  then,"  said  General  Garden, 
bowing  over  her  hand. 


CHAPTER  XV 

CONFIDENCES 

MURIEL  LANCING,  having  partaken  of  break- 
fast in  her  own  room,  was  now  lying  in  luxurious 
and  dainty  neglige  among  a  pile  of  extremely 
snowy  pillows.  Anne,  who  had  breakfasted  in 
the  dining-room  some  half  hour  previously,  was 
sitting  by  the  open  window  talking  to  her. 

"Anne,"  said  Muriel  suddenly,  glancing  at 
her  from  beneath  lowered  eyelashes,  "I  believe 
I  owe  you  a  confession  and  an  apology." 

"Yes?"  queried  Anne,  smiling.  "And  for 
what?" 

"I  wasn't,"  confessed  Muriel,  "one  bit  ill 
when  I  wrote  to  you.  I  was  only  mentally  sick 
because  I  wanted  Tommy,  and  he  had  to  go 
away  on  horrid  business  where  I  couldn't  accom- 
pany him — at  least,  he  said  I  couldn't;  and  that 
comes  to  the  same  thing — with  Tommy."  Muriel 
heaved  a  prodigious  sigh. 

143 


144  The  Peacock  Feather 

"Darling!"  laughed  Anne. 

Muriel  wrinkled  her  porcelain-like  brows.  "  Oh, 
Anne,  life  is  heavenly!  There's  only  just  one 
long  big  beautiful  moment  with  me  and  love  and 
Tommy.  But  there  are  ten  million  years  of 
purgatory  to  get  through  when  he  is  away  from 
me,  and  then  I'm  soul-sick.  And  I  tell  myself 
I'm  a  sentimental  little  fool,  but  it  doesn't  do  one 
bit  of  good.  So  I  wrote  to  you  to  come  to  me  till 
Patricia,  who  is  a  cheerful  soul,  can  join  me. 
And  I  didn't  want  to  tell  you  it  was  sheer  silly 
loneliness,  so  I  told  you  a  little  white  lie,"  she 
ended  tragically. 

"Of  course,"  said  Anne  serenely.     "I  knew." 

"Did  you?"  Muriel  was  half  incredulous. 

"Yes ;  your  letter  just  breathed  '  I  want  Tommy ' 
all  through  it.  And  as  a  kind  of  postscript  it 
added,  'But  you're  better  than  nothing  to  this 
poor  moping  person,  so  for  Heaven's  sake  come.' ' 

"And  I,"  murmured  Muriel  pathetically, 
"thought  my  letter  the  height  of  diplomatic 
lying." 

"On  the  contrary,"  Anne  assured  her,  "it 
was  as  transparent  as  a  crystal  bowl." 

For  a  few  moments  there  was  a  silence.     The 


Confidences  145 

warm  sun  was  pouring  through  the  open  window, 
falling  across  the  bed  and  the  slightly  tumbled 
bedclothes,  and  glinting  on  the  fair  hair  of  the 
woman  who  lay  among  the  pillows.  Strictly 
speaking,  Muriel  Lancing  was  not  beautiful,  she 
was  not  even  pretty.  But  there  was  an  odd 
charm  about  her  thin  little  face,  her  great  grey- 
green  eyes,  and  her  wide  mouth.  She  had  a 
curious,  almost  elfin-like  appearance.  She  was 
not  at  all  unlike  Arthur  Rackham's  pictures  of 
Undine  as  she  lay  there  in  some  flimsy  and  dia- 
phanous garment  suggestive  of  sea-foam.  Her- 
self— her  whole  surroundings — held  a  suggestion 
of  elusiveness,  a  kind  of  cobwebby  grace  and 
charm.  Tommy — adored  of  Muriel — once  said 
that  the  house  was  like  an  oyster-shell,  rough 
and  ugly  on  the  outside,  but  inside  all  soft  and 
shimmery  with  a  pearl  in  it.  It  was  his  most 
brilliantly  poetical  effusion,  and  never  likely  to 
be  surpassed  by  him.  The  only  single  thing  in 
the  room  that  struck  an  incongruous  note  was 
a  large — a  very  large — photograph  frame  on  a 
table  by  Muriel's  bed.  It  was  a  rough  wooden 
frame,  distinctly  crooked,  and  with  the  glue 
showing  somewhat  in  the  corners.  It  held  a 


146  The  Peacock  Feather 

full-length  photograph  of  an  ugly,  snub-nosed, 
but  quite  delightful-faced  young  man  with  a 
wide  mouth  and  an  appearance  that  rightly  sug- 
gested red  hair  and  freckles.  This  was  the  adored 
Tommy,  and  the  frame  was  his  own  manufacture. 
Next  to  the  man  himself  they  were  Muriel's 
most  treasured  possessions. 

Anne  looked  across  at  it.  She  had  often  seen 
it  before,  but  finding  it  difficult  to  discover  the 
most  tactful  observation  to  make  regarding  it, 
had  refrained  from  making  any.  This  time, 
however,  Muriel  seemed  to  notice  the  direction 
of  Anne's  eyes. 

"Tommy  made  it  himself,"  she  said,  stretch- 
ing out  one  white  arm,  from  which  a  flimsy 
covering  of  lace  and  gauze-like  material  fell 
away,  disclosing  its  slender  roundness.  She 
moved  the  frame  to  an  angle  better  calculated 
to  show  off  its  superior  qualities. 

"Really!"  said  Anne,  politely  incredulous, 
but  understanding.  It  explained  what  had 
hitherto  been  a  cause  for  wonderment,  namely, 
why  Muriel  should  choose  to  disfigure  her  room 
with  such  a  piece  of  furniture.  Its  size  almost 
calls  for  the  designation. 


Confidences  147 

"Yes,"  said  Muriel  proudly,  "himself.  I 
think,"  she  continued,  contemplating  the  picture 
with  her  head  at  as  one-sided  an  angle  as  her 
recumbent  position  would  allow,  "that  it  is  a 
beautiful  frame."  There  was  the  faintest  sus- 
picion of  a  challenge  in  her  voice. 

"I  am  quite  sure,"  said  Anne  in  a  perfectly 
grave  voice,  "that  you  could  not  possibly  have 
a  frame  which  you  would  value  more.  I  know 
I  couldn't  if  I  happened  to  be  you." 

Muriel  laughed  like  a  contented  child.  "Anne, 
you're  several  kinds  of  angels,  and  you  have  the 
heavenliest  way  of  saying  the  right  thing  and  yet 
speaking  the  truth.  Of  course  I  know  that  its 
sides  are  crooked,  and  that  there  are  little  moun- 
tains of  glue  in  the  corners.  But  you  should  have 
seen  Tommy's  face  when  he  brought  it  to  me. 
The  darling  was  so  afraid  it  was  not  of  quite  the 
most  finished  workmanship.  Oh,  Anne,  between 
the  comicality  of  his  face  and  the  lop-sided  expres- 
sion of  the  sticky  frame — the  glue  wasn't  quite 
dry — and  the  little  lump  in  my  own  throat  for 
the  darlingness  of  the  thought,  I  very  nearly  had 
hysterics.  But  I  hid  them  on  Tommy's  waist- 
coat, and  I  adore  the  frame." 


148  The  Peacock  Feather 

"Of  course,"  said  Anne,  smiling. 

Again  there  was  a  little  pause.  Then  Muriel 
spoke  suddenly. 

"What  do  you  think  of  General  Garden?  He 
monopolized  you  in  the  most  disgraceful  way 
last  night." 

"I  liked  him,"  returned  Anne,  calmly  ignor- 
ing the  question  of  monopoly.  "It  is  delight- 
fully refreshing  to  meet  a  man  so  entirely  of 
the  old  school  of  thought  and  manners." 

"  I  think  he's  quite  a  dear,"  returned  Muriel  com- 
fortably. "I've  known  him  since  I  was  in  short 
frocks  and  a  pigtail.  He  was  a  friend  of  my  father's. 
They  were  at  Harrow  together  and  afterwards  in 
the  same  regiment  in  India.  He  thinks  me — 
well,  just  a  little  flighty,  but  he  doesn't  altogether 
hate  me;  and  he's  quite  paternally  fond  of 
Tommy,"  she  ended  with  a  gay  little  laugh. 

"By  the  way,"  asked  Anne,  curious,  "why 
does  he  so  dislike  Millicent  Sheldon?  It  is  quite 
obvious  he  does  dislike  her." 

Muriel  gave  a  little  start.  Then  she  looked 
at  Anne,  doubtful,  hesitating.  "Oh,  my  dear 
Anne,  don't  you  know?  Somehow  I  fancied 
that  every  one — "  She  stopped. 


Confidences  149 

"Know  what?"  queried  Anne  idly,  but  inter- 
ested. 

"It's  really  gossip — if  true  things  are  gossip," 
said  Muriel  half  apologetically;  "still,  some  one 
is  sure  to  tell  you  sooner  or  later  since  you've 
met  General  Garden."  Again  she  stopped. 

"But  tell  me  what!"  demanded  Anne.  "Since 
you've  said  so  much,  had  you  not  better  give 
me  the  rest?  Besides,  since  you  say  some  one 
is  sure  to  tell  me,  why  not  let  me  hear  the  story 
from  you?  You  can  sweeten  it,  add  sugar  and 
cream,  if  you  will,  or  vinegar  and  spice,  if  those 
ingredients  will  flavour  it  better." 

Muriel  laughed.  "I'll  omit  the  garnishings; 
you  shall  have  the  facts  plain  and  simple.  Milli- 
cent  was  once  upon  a  time  engaged  to  General 
Garden's  son.  Then — for  certain  reasons — she 
threw  him  over,  and  married  the  highly  respectable 
and  bald-headed  Theobald  Horatio  Sheldon, 
whose  money — of  which  he  has  a  very  considerable 
quantity — was  made  by  inventing  those  little 
brush  things  that  are  fixed  on  behind  carts  and 
sweep  up  the  dirt  in  the  roads." 

"I  see,"  mused  Anne,  comprehending.  "But 
of  course,  as  I  had  never  met  General  Garden 


150  The  Peacock  Feather 

before,  I  naturally  did  not  know  that  he  pos- 
sessed a  son.  He  did  not,  either,  happen  to 
mention  him  to  me." 

"But  of  course  not,"  said  Muriel  tragically. 
"That's  exactly  where  the  reasons  and  the  real 
gossip  come  in.  He  spent  three  years  in  Port- 
land prison  for  forgery,  or  embezzlement,  or 
something  of  the  kind.  He's  out  now,  but  he 
was  in." 

"Oh!"  said  Anne  seriously. 

"And,"  ended  Muriel,  stilf  more  tragically, 
"General  Garden  has  never  seen  his  son  again 
nor  forgiven  Millicent  for  throwing  him  over. 
It's  rather  contradictory,  isn't  it?" 

Anne  looked  down  into  the  street  where  a 
flower-girl  was  standing  on  the  pavement  with  a 
basket  full  of  great  white  lilies.  She  contem- 
plated her  for  a  few  moments  in  silence,  and 
seemingly  drew  conclusions  from  the  flowers. 
She  looked  round  again  at  Muriel. 

"I    think    I    understand,"    she    said    quietly. 

Muriel  looked  at  her  curiously.  "Then  it's 
quite  remarkably  intelligent  of  you." 

"No,"  said  Anne  calmly.  "He  loves  his  son 
and  has  never  forgotten  him.  She  has  forgot- 


Confidences 


ten  him  and  probably  never  loved  him.  That's 
why  he  can't  forgive  her." 

"Oh!"  said  Muriel.  "I'm  sure  you're  right 
that  he  has  not  forgotten.  He's  eating  his  heart 
out  for  him,  or  I'm  much  mistaken,  and  he's  too 
proud  to  own  it  by  the  quiver  of  an  eyelash.  We 
women  have  the  easier  time.  It's  our  r61e  to 
keep  our  arms  and  hearts  open  to  sinners,  and 
thank  Heaven  for  it." 

Anne  was  again  looking  at  the  flowers.  She 
had  said  she  understood,  but  in  reality  it  was 
only  partly.  She  did  understand  General  Garden, 
but  Millicent  with  her  serious  speeches  on  nobility 
and  bigness  of  character  was  another  matter. 
She  voiced  her  perplexity  to  Muriel. 

"Oh,  but  Millicent!"  said  Muriel  in  a  tone 
that  quite  disposed  of  the  question. 

"Yet,"  said  Anne,  "Millicent  has  always 
talked  as  if  she  would  help  any  one  re-make  his 
life,  as  if  it  were  the  one  thing  she  would  do, 
and—"  She  broke  off. 

Muriel  gurgled.  "Oh,  Anne  darling,  you're 
so  big-minded  and  truthful  —  in  spite  of  your 
occasional  woman-of-the-world  airs,  which  are 
only  a  veneer  —  that  you  accept  people  at  their 


152  The  Peacock  Feather 

own  valuation.  The  things  that  people  say  they 
will  do  are  the  very  things  that  at  a  crucial 
moment  they  do  not  do.  I  think  crucial  moments 
are  a  kind  of  revolution  which  turns  the  other 
side  of  the  person  completely  to  the  fore."  And 
then  her  tone  changed  to  one  of  solemn  warning. 
"You,  Anne,  doubtless  consider  yourself  a  luxury- 
loving  woman,  to  whom  the  bare  prospect  of 
coarse  underclothes,  cold  rooms,  ill-cooked  food, 
and  commonplace  surroundings  would  be  appal- 
ling. Yet  I  firmly  believe  that  if  the  crucial 
moment  came  you  would  tramp  the  roads  with 
your  man." 

"Mmm!"  said  Anne.  And  that  rose  colour 
stole  into  the  ivory  of  her  face,  a  colour  not  un- 
noticed by  the  watchful  eyes  of  Muriel.  "Per- 
haps, the  roads;  but  do  you  think  it  would  carry 
me  to  a  suburban  house  with  a  glass  fanlight  over 
the  front  door?  It  would  be  the  bigger  test. 
But,  and  there  I  think  you've  omitted  a  point, 
how  about  the  second  moment,  the  moment  when 
the  crucial  moment  is  passed?" 

Muriel  raised  herself  on  one  arm  and  spoke 
firmly.  "Love — real  love — is  one  long  crucial 
moment.  I  speak  from  experience  because  I 


Confidences  153 

love  Tommy."  She  tumbled  flat  again  among 
her  pillows,  and  looked  across  at  Anne  to  challenge 
her  experience  if  she  dared. 

Anne,  being  of  course  an  unmarried  woman 
with  no  experience  of  the  kind,  merely  smiled, 
a  tiny  smile  which  ended  in  a  half  sigh. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

LETTERS 

The  Unknown  Critic  to  Robin  Adair,  or  the 
Lady  Anne  Garland  to  Peter  the  Piper 

LONDON, 

July  ^th. 

DEAR  ROBIN  ADAIR,— I  have  met  another 
admirer  of  your  book,  a  delightful  old  man  of 
courtly  manners  of  the  style  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  At  first  he  assumed  disparagement  of  it, 
or  at  the  best  a  faint  half-hearted  kind  of  praise, 
which  would,  I  believe,  in  any  case  have  roused  a 
spirit  of  contradiction  in  me.  With  your  book 
as  the  subject  I  waxed  eloquent.  I  took  up  the 
cudgels  of  defence,  and  I  flatter  myself  wielded 
them  with  dexterity.  When  at  last  the  flow  of 
my  discourse  ceased — and  I  trust  I  was  not  too 
didactic  in  my  observations — he  confessed  calmly 
that  he  had  merely  assumed  disparagement  in 

154 


Letters  155 

order  that  he  might  have  the  pleasure  of  hearing  me 
refute  him!  It  knocked  the  wind  completely  out 
of  my  sails.  I  was  left  helpless,  stranded,  entirely 
at  a  loss  for  a  suitable  reply.  I  hope  I  carried  off 
the  situation  with  at  least  a  passable  degree  of 
savoir-faire,  but  I  have  my  doubts. 

I  so  frequently  find  myself  addressing  really 
witty  and  brilliant  remarks  to  my  bedpost  fully 
an  hour  or  so  after  the  opportunity  of  making  them 
has  passed,  when  the  witticism,  the  brilliance, 
might  have  been  delivered  in  the  presence  of  an- 
other, and  have  covered  me  with  a  dazzling  glory. 
It  is  humiliating  to  contrast  what  one  has  said 
with  what  one  might  have  remarked.  You 
writers  have  the  better  time.  In  silence  and 
solitude  you  can  consider  your  epigrams,  and  then 
place  them  in  the  mouths  of  your  fictional  people 
at  the  psychological  moment,  and  the  world  is 
left  to  marvel  at  your  brilliance. 

But  to  return  to  my  old  courtier.  He  has  a 
sad  history,  which  he  hides  under  a  mask  of  urbane 
and  suave  courtliness.  He  has  a  son,  who — so 
the  story  runs — has  disgraced  their  name.  The 
old  man  being  too  proud  to  overlook  the  disgrace — 
too  proud,  perhaps,  to  stoop  and  delve  for  ex- 


156  The  Peacock  Feather 

tenuating  circumstances — has  cut  the  son  out  of  his 
life;  but  fortunately,  or  unfortunately,  he  cannot 
cut  him  out  of  his  heart,  which  is  aching,  pining, 
for  the  lack  of  him.  Why  can  he  not  put  pride 
in  his  pocket  and  ease  his  heartache?  It's  a 
pitiful  little  story,  and  one  which  has  caused  my 
own  heart  to  ache,  though  quite  possibly  I  should 
have  dismissed  it  without  a  second  thought  if  I 
had  not  met  the  old  courtier. 

The  friend  with  whom  I  am  staying  has  soothed 
the  spirit  of  discontent  which  was  awake  in  me 
when  I  last  wrote.  Her  method  is  entirely 
unobvious.  I  think  it  lies  in  her  own  incurably 
good  spirits,  and  her  optimism,  both  of  which 
are  infectious.  There  is  an  "everything  is  for 
the  best  in  this  best  of  all  possible  worlds"  air 
about  her  which  is  exhilarating. 

I  have,  though,  been  disappointed  in  another 
friend,  if  I  may  use  the  word.  Personally  I  feel 
there  should  be  another  to  use.  An  acquaintance 
signifies  one  of  whom  we  have  but  a  passing  and 
superficial  knowledge,  and  a  friend  some  one 
much  closer — very  close — the  word  in  its  real 
sense.  Am  I  drawing  too  fine  a  point?  Perhaps 
one  might  use  the  terms  I  have  heard  children  use, 


Letters  157 

" friends,"  and  "truly  friends."  So,  to  use  the  first 
term  in  application  to  this  woman,  I  have  been 
disappointed  in  a  friend.  She  is  not  what  I 
believed  her  to  be,  what  I  believe  she  wished  me  to 
believe  her.  It  has  spoilt,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned 
the  intimacy  between  us.  I  cannot  re-adjust 
myself  towards  her,  and  I  feel  myself  acting  the 
part  of  a  hypocrite.  I  have  picked  up  her  broken 
pieces  as  best  I  may,  and  mended  them,  but  I 
am  conscious  of  the  cracks.  My  mending  has  not 
been  as  neat  a  job  as  I  could  wish.  Is  it  any  use 
trying  to  mend?  Tell  me  what  you  think,  O  Man! 

The  worst  of  it  is  that  before  she  broke  I  asked 
her  to  spend  a  few  days  with  me  in  August.  Dur- 
ing those  days  I  shall  be  terribly,  hideously 
conscious  of  the  cracks.  I  shall  find  myself  staring 
at  them  with  a  kind  of  awful  fascination.  Pray 
Heaven  she'll  not  observe  it,  for  if  she  did  I — 
in  the  r61e  of  hostess — would  be  forever  disgraced 
in  my  own  eyes. 

I  do  not  know  why  I  should  write  all  this  to  you ; 
why  I  should  trouble  you  with  what,  I  am  fully 
aware,  are  mere  absurdities  which  any  sane  and 
reasonable  person  would  assuredly  dismiss  without 
a  second  thought.  May  I  plead  in  excuse  that 


158  The  Peacock  Feather 

somehow  you  have  taken  the  position  of  a 
"truly  friend,"  one  to  whom  trivialities — which 
after  all  make  up  the  greater  part  of  one's  life 
— may  be  mentioned  without  fear  of  a  laugh  or  a 
snub? 

I  went  to  a  Beethoven  concert  the  other  day. 
To  me  he  stands  head  and  shoulders  above  every 
other  composer,  living  or  dead.  Does  music 
give  you  the  sensation  of  colour  and  form?  It 
does  me.  That  was  a  purple  concert,  sphere- 
shaped.  Mozart's  music  is  sapphire  blue  and 
shaped  like  a  star.  Bach's  is  dark  green  and 
square.  Grieg's  is  pale  green  with  a  hint  of  pink 
and  a  slim  oval.  Wagner's  is  crimson  and  purple 
and  shaped  like  a  massive  crown.  I  might  go  on 
enumerating,  if  I  did  not  fear  to  bore  you. 

Have  you  read  Conard's  life  of  Beethoven? 
Do  you  know  Beethoven's  own  words:  -"Oh 
hommes,  si  vous  lisez  un  jour  ceci,  pensez  que 
vous  avez  ete  injustes  pour  moi;  et  que  le  mal- 
heureux  se  console,  en  trouvant  un  malheureux 
comme  ltd,  qui,  malgre  tous  les  obstacles  de  la 
nature,  a  cependant  fait  tout  ce  qui  etait  en  son 
pouvoir,  pour  £tre  admis  au  rang  des  artistes  et 
des  hommes  d'elites?" 


Letters  159 

Grand,  glorious  Beethoven!  the  struggle  over 
all  infirmity,  the  victory,  and  his  lonely  yet 
dramatic  death!  "II  mourut  pendant  un  orage 
— une  tempe'te  de  neige — dans  un  eclat  de 
tonnerre.  Une  main  etran£gre  lui  fermer  les 
yeux."  If  I  am  a  hero- worshipper,  and  it 
would  seem  that  I  am,  Beethoven  stands  in  the 
front  rank  of  my  heroes.  Read  his  life — by 
Conard — if  you  have  not  already  done  so.  It 
is  one  which  every  artist,  of  whatever  branch  his 
art,  should  know. 

How  goes  it  with  your  Wanderer?  Is  he  recon- 
ciled to  his  distance  from  his  star?  Or  have  you 
let  the  star  fall  to  his  hilltop? 

Good-night. 

Robin  Adair  to  the  Unknown  Critic,  or  Peter 
the  Piper  to  the  Lady  Anne  Garland 

July  gth. 

DEAR  LADY, — I  have  re-read  your  letter  more 
than  once.  It  is — dare  I  say? — somewhat  illogi- 
cal, and  therein  most  delightfully  feminine. 

You  suggest  that  your  old  courtier  should  ease 
his  heartache.  Do  you  not  see  that  in  so  attempt- 
ing he  could  only  bring  into  his  life  a  thing  which 


160  The  Peacock  Feather 

is  in  his  eyes  broken?  And,  however  carefully 
he  might  mend  it,  would  he  not  be — as  you  are — 
painfully  and  terribly  aware  of  the  cracks?  Men, 
I  fancy,  choose  the  wiser  way;  they  throw  aside 
the  broken  pieces  into  a  neat  little  dustbin, 
making  no  attempt  to  mend.  For,  after  all,  is 
not  the  glue  which  holds  the  thing  together  a 
certain  sophism  which  is  always  apparent  to  the 
repairer,  and  which  is,  frequently,  not  very  ad- 
hesive? Once  broken — in  spite  of  the  glue — it  is 
apt  to  fall  to  pieces  on  the  slightest  handling.  No, 
the  dustbin,  in  my  opinion,  is  the  better  solution. 
You,  as  a  woman,  doubtless  will  not  agree  with  me. 
Women  invariably  mend,  and  the  majority — less 
critical  than  you — fancy  they  make  of  the  mending 
a  neat  job. 

Let  me  offer  you  one  piece  of  advice.  Do  not 
let  your  heart  ache  for  the  story  you  have  heard. 
It  was,  no  doubt,  related  to  you  by  another  than 
your  courtier,  and  was  soothed,  softened,  rendered 
pathetic  in  the  telling.  You,  in  your  tenderness, 
have  imagined  your  courtier  as  hankering  after  the 
broken  pieces  of  his  image  in  the  dustbin.  Your 
tender  imagination  removed,  the  glamour  of 
pathos  round  the  story  would  be  removed  also, 


Letters  161 

and  you  would  find  heartaches  and  such-like 
non-existent. 

I  do  not  believe  that  the  wind  is  ever  so  com- 
pletely knocked  out  of  your  sails — as  you  say — • 
that  you  are  unable  to  find  some  appropriate 
reply.  That  is  merely  your  modesty.  I  picture 
you  as  talking  with  charm,  with  ease,  with  bril- 
liance. Witticisms  I  leave  outside  the  category. 
They  belong  to  older  men  and  women,  and  are 
apt  to  have  a  poignant  edge  foreign  to  my  idea 
of  your  words. 

I  like  to  think  that  you  count  me,  as  the  children 
say,  a  "truly  friend."  Your  friendship — disem- 
bodied though  it  is — has  brought  me  refreshment, 
happiness.  Though  for  a  time  my  Wanderer  had 
obsessed  me  with  his  mood,  the  obsession  is 
passed.  It  has  passed  with  him  also.  He  does  not 
desire  that  the  star  should  fall  to  him.  Its  very 
charm  lies  in  its  altitude.  Perhaps  one  day,  when 
he  has  cast  off  the  mantle  of  his  flesh,  he  will  build 
himself  that  ladder  of  moonbeams,  and  mount  to 
it.  As  it  is — his  mood  of  discontent  passed — he 
is  worshipping,  grateful  that  it  shines  in  his 
otherwise  empty  firmament.  From  the  little 
hilltop — which  he  found  was  but  an  ant-heap — 


162  The  Peacock  Feather 

from  the  lanes,  from  the  fields,  he  looks  up  to  it, 
and  addresses  to  it  his  thoughts,  his  fancies.  He 
is  once  more  a  cheerful  soul,  appreciating  the  earth, 
the  wind,  and  the  flowers.  His  love  and  worship 
he  keeps  for  his  star. 

I  have  not  read  Conard's  life  of  Beethoven,  nor, 
I  confess,  any  writer's  life  of  him.  I  will  make 
up  for  the  omission  without  delay.  His  music 
I  know  and  love.  Your  little  discourse  on  colour 
and  shapes  in  music  interests  me.  I  should  like 
to  hear  more  about  them.  Unknowingly  I  believe 
I  have  had  the  same  thoughts,  and  I  agree  with 
the  colours  and  shapes  you  assign,  with,  perhaps, 
the  exception  of  Grieg's  shape.  His  colour — 
yes ;  but  I  have  a  fancy  that  his  form  is  less  simple, 
more  a  variety  of  curves.  I  think  I  should  give 
the  oval — slightly  broadened — to  Schumann,  and 
in  its  slim  form  to  Heller.  Schumann,  by  the  way, 
is  blue — darker  than  Mozart,  and,  though  soft 
in  colour,  less  transparent.  Heller  is  pale  yellow. 
Do  you  agree? 

Write  again  soon,  and  tell  me  everything  you  will 
about  yourself. 

Good-night. 

ROBIN  ADAIR. 


Letters  163 

The  Unknown  Critic  to  Robin  Adair,  or  the 
Lady  Anne  Garland  to  Peter  the  Piper 

THE  TERRACE, 

July  i6th. 

DEAR  ROBIN  ADAIR, — Here  I  am  once  more  on 
my  terrace,  looking  across  the  garden  and  the  park 
land  towards  a  small  village — whose  name  I  will 
not  disclose — lying  half -hidden  among  the  trees 
in  the  valley.  Occasionally,  when  I  am  in  a 
ruminative  mood,  I  wonder  at  the  lives  of  the 
inhabitants  thereof — the  routine  of  them,  with 
no  greater  excitement  than  a  visit  to  the  market- 
town  some  eight  miles  distant.  True,  there  is  the 
yearly  fair  at  that  place,  which  is  an  event  of  the 
greatest  importance.  Every  man,  woman,  and 
child,  except  the  extremely  old  and  the  extremely 
young,  flocks  to  the  town  on  that  day.  Every 
available  vehicle  is  requisitioned  and  packed  with 
a  mass  of  humanity  to  the  fullest  extent  of  its 
capacities,  and  those  unable  to  find  conveyance 
in  them,  and  more  stalwart,  walk.  There  are  at 
the  fair,  so  I  am  told,  booths,  coco-nut  shies, 
merry-go-rounds,  and  peep-shows  of  a  fat  woman 
whose  age  is  unknown,  but  who  apparently  must 
be  akin  to  Methuselah,  since  she  has  been  regarded, 


164  The  Peacock  Feather 

it  would  seem,  by  the  fathers,  the  grandfathers, 
and  the  great-grandfathers  of  the  present  genera- 
tion. But  with  the  exception  of  the  fair  there  is 
absolutely  nothing  to  break  the  monotony  of 
their  lives  but  the  weather  and  a  wedding  or  a 
funeral.  It's  rather  appalling  to  contemplate, 
isn't  it?  But  they  seem  content  and  happy,  and 
that  after  all  is  the  main  thing. 

Do  you  believe  in  fortune-tellers?  I  went  to 
one  before  I  left  town.  I  do  not  think  it  was  great 
credulity  in  the  art  that  urged  me  to  consult  the 
sibyl,  but  merely  the  fact  that  the  friend  with 
whom  I  was  staying  persuaded  me  into  the  con- 
sultation. I  had  what  is  termed  a  "full  reading. " 
The  palm  of  my  hand  was  conned,  the  cards  spread 
out,  and  the  crystal  gazed  into.  I  confess  that 
the  affair  was,  to  a  certain  degree,  uncanny. 
Her  description  of  my  house — this  one — was 
extraordinary.  It  might  have  been  before  her 
as  she  spoke,  and  she  actually  saw  me  listening  to 
a  concert  by  the  vagabond  Piper — and  not  only 
the  concert  of  which  I  have  told  you,  but  another 
concert,  one  he  gave  me  the  night  before  I  went 
up  to  town,  and  of  which  I  believe  no  one  was 
aware  but  he  and  I.  He  came  to  the  terrace 


Letters  165 

and  played  below  my  window.  It  was  quite 
medieval,  and  entirely  delightful.  She  saw,  too, 
letters  which  I  was  receiving  and  which  were  a 
source  of  great  pleasure  to  me,  and  therein  she 
was  very  assuredly  right.  But — and  I  hope 
you  will  not  be  offended — after  that  she  began  to 
mix  the  Piper  and  the  writer  of  letters,  speaking 
of  them  with  confidence  as  one  and  the  same 
person.  I  did  not  enlighten  her  as  to  her  mistake, 
as  with  these  sibyls  it  is  better  to  let  them  say 
what  they  see  without  interruption,  otherwise 
they  are  apt  to  try  and  tell  you  what  they  think 
you  wish  to  know,  what  they  think  you  desire 
to  have  said.  It  was  curious.  And  here  I  will 
make  a  confession.  I  myself  have  occasionally, 
and  in  quite  an  absurd  fashion,  confounded  the 
two  in  my  thoughts.  Do  not  be  vexed,  Robin 
Adair,  for  you  dislike — or  pretend  to  dislike — 
the  Piper.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  the  sibyl 
must  have  been  extraordinary  telepathic,  and  have 
somehow  read  my  thoughts,  and  their  occasional 
confusion,  in  a  remarkable  degree.  She  told  me 
a  good  deal  more,  no  doubt  the  usual  fortune- 
telling  jargon,  which  would  be,  I  am  sure,  of  little 
interest  to  you.  Certainly  it  is  not  worth  repe- 


1 66  The  Peacock  Feather 

tition.  But  what  I  have  told  you  struck  me  as 
distinctly  queer. 

I  am  rejoiced  to  hear  that  your  Wanderer — 
and  consequently  you — are  once  more  soothed 
and  peaceful.  And  now  that  he  is  so,  let  him 
continue  to  recount  his  thoughts  by  the  hand  of 
Robin  Adair,  that  I  may  shortly  have  the  benefit 
of  them. 

One  day — not  to-day — I  will  write  you  all  my 
fancies  on  colour,  and  I  have  a  good  many. 
Perhaps  you  are  right  as  to  Grieg's  form.  It  is 
probably  more  intricate  than  the  oval.  Possibly 
it  is  a  design  of  many  curves.  As  regards  Schu- 
mann and  Heller,  I  agree. 

I  fancy  you  are  wrong  about  my  courtier.  He 
has,  no  doubt,  acted  on  your  dustbin  principle, 
but,  all  the  same,  I  believe  he  regrets  the  action. 
Of  course,  I  see  the  justice  of  your  accusation  that 
my  letter  was  illogical,  but  I  cannot  begin  an 
argument  and  a  defence  now.  The  day  is  too 
warm  and  lazy  for  such  exertion.  The  heat- 
shimmer  is  bathing  the  gardens,  and  the  top  of  my 
silver  ink-bottle  is  almost  too  hot  to  touch.  The 
sun  has  slanted  round,  and  is  frizzling  me  in  a 
diabolical  fashion.  Hitherto  I've  been  too  indo- 


Letters  167 

lent  to  move,  but  now,  if  I  don't  intend  to  be 
entirely  melted,  I  must  get  up  and  pull  my  chair 

into  the  shade. 

Of  course  fortune-telling  is  absurd  really,  at 

least  as  far  as  regards  the  future.  Though  I 
grant  that  this  woman's  reading  of  my  thoughts 
was  clever. 

Good-bye  for  the  present.  The  bees  are  dron- 
ing a  lullaby,  and  I  believe  I  shall  sleep. 

Robin  Adair  to  the  Unknown  Critic,  or  Peter 
the  Piper  to  the  Lady  Anne  Garland 

July  i8th. 

DEAR  LADY, — I  have  no  theories  as  to  fortune- 
tellers beyond  a,  no  doubt  absurd,  dislike  to  them. 
I  do  not  care  to  think  of  you  consulting  them. 
Forgive  me  for  saying  so.  I  am  perfectly  well 
aware  that  I  have  no  smallest  right  to  express  an 
opinion,  but — it  will  out — I  wish  you  wouldn't, 
and  long  to  beg  you  not  to  do  it  again. 

When  you  are  in  a  less  melted  mood  write  me 
a  letter  of  argument  and  defence.  You  will  not 
be  able  to  explain  away  your  illogical  statements, 
but  I  should  much  enjoy  hearing  you  try  to  do  so. 

I  must  certainly  contradict  flatly  about  your 


1 68  The  Peacock  Feather 

courtier.  I  am  sure  you  are  wrong.  And  as  I 
shall  cry  "Knife"  every  time  you  cry  "Scissors," 
let  us  abandon  him  as  a  topic  of  discussion.  Write 
to  me  of  colours  instead. 

This  is  a  rude  letter,  and  I  know  it.  But  a 
little  incident  has  rubbed  my  mental  fur  the  wrong 
way,  and  I  am — well,  cross  with  myself  I  believe. 
Perhaps  it  would  be  wiser  not  to  write  at  all,  but 
not  to  do  so  would  be  to  discontinue  a  little  cere- 
mony which  I  have  put  in  practice  since  the  first 
day  I  heard  from  you.  Will  you  laugh  at  me, 
I  wonder,  if  I  tell  you  that  every  evening  your 
letter  arrives  I  become  a  host,  and  toast  an  invisi- 
ble Lady  who  has  condescended  to  dine  with  me, 
and  after  dinner  we  talk  together — through  the 
medium  of  pen,  ink,  and  paper.  Sometimes  I  like 
to  imagine  that  the  medium  is  less  material,  and 
that  my  thoughts  are  carried  straight  on  the  wings 
of  fancy  to  the  Lady's  terrace.  But  if  they  go,  can 
she  perceive  them?  Are  they  not  too  clumsy,  too 
material,  to  find  response  in  her  thought-cells? 
After  all,  it  is  but  a  fancy,  and  you  may  quite  well 
smile  at  both  it  and  my  dream  dinner-party. 

To-night  I  have  not  been  a  good  host.  I 
apologize  to  the  Lady.  Being  the  sole  guest  I 


Letters  169 

ever  receive,  I  might  have  treated  her  with  greater 
courtesy. 

ROBIN  ADAIR. 

The  Unknown  Critic  to  Robin  Adair,  or  the 
Lady  Anne  Garland  to  Peter  the  Piper 

THE  TERRACE, 
July  20th. 

DEAR  ROBIN  ADAIR, — I  did  not  smile — at  any 
rate  not  ironically.  If  there  was  a  little  smile  it 
was  verging  close  on  tears.  Are  you  really  so 
lonely?  Somehow  I  had  fancied  that  when  you 
spoke  of  yourself  as  a  recluse  it  was  a  mere  figure 
of  speech.  Have  you  no  friends  who  dine  with 
you,  who  visit  you — no  material  friends? 

The  little  mental  picture  your  letter  called  up 
was  pathetic.  I  wish — well,  never  mind  what  I 
wish.  Probably  it  would  be  no  atom  of  good. 
I  believe — I  am  sure — your  thoughts  do  reach  me. 
Send  them  to  me,  and  I  will  send  mine  to  you. 

Robin  Adair  to  the  Unknown  Critic,  or  Peter 
the  Piper  to  the  Lady  Anne  Garland 

July  22nd. 
DEAR  LADY, — Forget  my  letter.     I  did  not  mean 


170  The  Peacock  Feather 

to  drivel.  I  did  not  mean  to  cause  you  the  faintest 
suspicion  of  tears.  I  am  not,  I  believe,  a  sociable 
person.  My  disembodied  Lady  is  more  to  me  than 
hundreds  of  material  friends.  I  am  utterly  and 
entirely  grateful  for  her  invisible  presence — and 
the  thoughts  she  sends  me.  Whatever  you  wish 
must  be  of  benefit.  Whatever  that  unexpressed 
wish  was,  I  endorse  it. 
Thank  you  for  your  letter. 

ROBIN  ADAIR. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A  THUNDERSTORM 

"There  is  a  Lady  sweet  and  kind, 
Was  never  face  so  pleased  my  mind, 
I  did  but  see  her  passing  by, 
And  yet  I  love  her  till  I  die," 

sang  Peter,  in  a  pleasant  tenor  voice. 

He  was  sitting  by  the  window  of  his  cottage, 
engaged — truth  will  out — in  darning  a  pair  of 
green  socks.  Occasionally  he  lifted  his  head  from 
his  work  and  gazed  through  the  window.  It 
was  intensely  still  outside;  not  a  leaf,  not  a  blade 
of  grass  was  stirring.  It  was  almost  overpower- 
ingly  close  and  sultry.  Peter  had  set  both  door 
and  window  open  in  invitation  to  a  non-existent 
breeze  to  enter. 

From  the  north,  where  a  great  bank  of  ominous 
black  clouds  was  piled,  came  a  low,  sinister  rumble. 

"It's  coming,"  said  Peter  aloud,  looking  through 

the  window.     "The  storm,  the  tempest,  the  whole 

171 


172  The  Peacock  Feather 

wrath  of  the  furious  elements  will  shortly  be 
loosed  upon  us.  The  clouds  are  coming  up  with 
extraordinary  rapidity,  considering  there's  no 
wind  at  all  down  here.  Up  there  it  must  be 
blowing  half  a  gale.  We'll  get  rain  soon." 
He  returned  to  his  darning. 

"Her  gesture,  motion,  and  her  smiles, 
Her  wit,  her  voice,  my  heart  beguiles, 
Beguiles  my  heart,  I  know  not  why, 
And  yet  I  love  her  till  I  die," 

he  sang,  sticking  his  needle  carefully  in  and  out 
of  the  heel  of  the  sock. 

"And  the  green  of  the  wool  doesn't  match  the 
green  of  the  sock  one  little  bit!"  he  said  ruefully. 
"But,  after  all,  no  one  looks  at  me;  and  I  certainly 
can't  look  at  my  own  heels — at  least,  not  without 
a  certain  amount  of  effort,  so  n'importe,  as  they 
say  in  France." 

"Cupid  is  winged  and  doth  range 
Her  country,  so  my  love  doth  change; 
But  change  she  earth,  or  change  she  sky, 
Yet  will  I  love  her  till  I  die." 

Peter  cut  the  wool  with  his  pocket-knife,  and 


A  Thunderstorm  173 

contemplated  the  sock  with  his  head  on  one  side. 
Then  he  threw  it  on  to  the  table.  There  was  a 
little  laugh  in  his  eyes,  not  caused  by  the  con- 
templation of  the  sock. 

"I  believe,"  he  said  whimsically,  "that  that 
fellow — what  was  his  name? — Neil  Macdonald, 
was  right  after  all,  and  that  Chaucer  is — well,  an 
old  fraud.  Yet,"  and  a  wistful  look  crept  into 
his  blue  eyes,  "I  might  have  done  much  better 
if  I'd  gone  on  believing  in  him.  Yet,  I  don't 
know.  After  all,  Peter,  my  son,  isn't  the  joy  worth 
a  bit  of  heartache!" 

He  got  up  from  his  chair  and  went  towards  the 
door.  He  could  look  over  the  hedge  and  up  and 
down  the  lane  from  his  position.  A  couple  of  big 
drops,  large  as  half-crowns,  had  just  fallen  on  his 
spotlessly  white  doorstep — Peter  was  proud  of  his 
doorstep.  They  were  followed  by  another  and 
another.  There  was  a  flash,  a  terrific  peal,  and 
then  with  a  sudden  hiss  came  the  deluge.  Straight 
down  it  fell,  as  if  poured  from  buckets,  and  the 
lightning  played  across  the  sky  and  the  thunder 
pealed. 

"Ouf!"  said  Peter,  drawing  in  a  huge  breath 
as  the  refreshing  scent  of  the  grateful  earth  came 


174  The  Peacock  Feather 

to  his  nostrils.  "That's  really  quite  the  very 
best  smell  there  is,  and  worth  all  your  eau-de- 
colognes,  and  your  phulnanas,  and — and  your 
whatever  you  call  'em  put  together.  It  really 
is — "  And  then  he  broke  off,  for  down  the 
lane  came  running  a  woman,  her  head  bent,  the 
rain  beating,  drenching  down  upon  her.  Peter 
was  at  the  gate  in  a  moment. 

"Come  in  here!"  he  called. 

She  paused,  hesitated.  Peter  saw  her  face. 
His  heart  jumped,  and  then  started  off  klip- 
klopping  at  a  terrible  rate. 

"I — "  she  began.  A  blinding  flash  of  light- 
ning, followed  by  a  terrific  peal  right  overhead, 
stopped  the  words. 

"Come  at  once!"  said  Peter  imperatively, 
sharply  almost.  "It's  not  safe." 

She  ran  up  the  path,  he  following.  In  the 
shelter  of  the  cottage  she  turned  and  faced 
him.  The  colour  in  her  face  was  not,  perhaps, 
quite  to  be  accounted  for  by  the  rain  and  her 
own  haste. 

"You're  drenched,"  said  Peter  abruptly.  "You 
can't  stay  in  those  wet  things  a  moment  longer 
than  absolutely  necessary.  With  your  permission, 


A  Thunderstorm  175 

I  shall  go  to  your  house  and  order  your  carriage 
to  be  sent  immediately.  But  first — "  He  had 
put  her  a  chair  by  the  fireplace;  he  was  on  his 
knees  applying  a  match  to  the  pile  of  sticks  and 
fir-cones  already  laid  therein. 

"But,"  protested  Lady  Anne,  "I  cannot  give 
my  permission.  You  will  yourself  be  soaked — 
drenched — if  you  venture  out  in  this  downpour." 

Peter  laughed  lightly.  "It  will  not  be  the  first 
time,  nor,  I  dare  to  say,  the  last.  Rain  has  but 
little  effect  on  me."  He  rose  from  his  knees. 
The  flames  were  twining  and  twisting  from  stick 
to  stick  in  long  tongues  of  orange  and  yellow  and 
blue.  There  was  a  merry  crackling,  there  were 
flying  sparks. 

Peter  crossed  to  the  cupboard.  From  it  he 
brought  a  black  bottle  and  a  wineglass. 

"I  have,  alas!  no  brandy  to  offer  you,  but  port 
wine  will,  I  hope,  prove  as  efficacious  against  a 
chill."  Without  paying  the  smallest  heed  to  her 
protestations  he  poured  her  out  a  glass,  which  he 
held  towards  her.  "Drink  it,"  he  said,  in  some- 
what the  tone  one  orders  a  refractory  child  to  take 
a  glass  of  medicine. 

Anne  took  the  glass,  meekly,  obediently,  with 


176  The  Peacock  Feather 

the  faintest  gurgle  of  laughter.  ' '  To  your  health ! ' ' 
she  said  as  she  sipped  the  wine. 

Peter's  heart  beat  hotly,  madly.  Here  was 
She,  actually  She  in  the  flesh,  toasting  him  in  his 
own  room.  He  poured  out  another  glass. 

"To  you,"  he  said,  and  under  his  breath  he 
added,  "My  Lady,  my  Star,  my  altogether  Divin- 
ity!" Then  he  moved  firmly  to  the  door. 

"I  cannot  allow  you  to  go,"  said  Anne  quickly. 

"Alas!"  said  Peter,  smiling,  "then  I  must 
forego  your  permission.  In  less  than  half  an 
hour,  in  twenty  minutes  perhaps,  your  carriage 
will  be  here."  And  he  vanished  into  the  sluice 
without. 

"And  now,"  he  said,  as  he  set  off  at  a  half- 
canter  down  the  lane,  "if  she  does  glance  round 
the  room  and  find  it  sleeping-apartment  as  well 
as  sitting-room,  she  will,  I  trust,  be  less  embar- 
rassed. For  Heaven  knows  whether  in  some 
particulars  she  may  not  bow  to  old  Dame 
Grundy's  decrees.  Bless  her!"  And  it  is  to  be 
conjectured  that  it  was  not  on  Mrs.  Grundy's 
head  that  Peter's  blessing  was  invoked. 

Anne,  left  to  solitude,  a  blazing  fire,  and  a  glass 
of  port,  sat  for  a  moment  or  so  deep  in  thought. 


A  Thunderstorm  177 

Who  was  this  man,  with  his  little  imperative  ways, 
his  abrupt  speech,  hiding,  she  was  well  aware,  a 
certain  embarrassment?  He  was  well-born,  there 
was  no  doubt  about  that  fact.  His  voice,  in 
spite  of  its  abruptness,  had  the  pleasant  modula- 
tion of  breeding.  His  hands — she  had  noticed 
his  hands — were  long-fingered,  flexible,  and  brown. 
They  were  also  well  kept.  Who  was  he?  But 
who  was  he? 

The  fire  offering  her  no  solution,  she  finished 
her  glass  of  port,  and,  kneeling  down  by  the  hearth, 
let  the  warmth  of  the  flames  play  upon  her  wet 
blouse.  She  unpinned  her  hat  and  shook  the  rain 
from  it.  The  drops  sizzled  as  they  fell  among  the 
flames  and  glowing  sticks.  She  put  her  hat  on 
the  ground  beside  her  and  turned  towards  the 
room.  She  scrutinized  it  with  interest.  It  was 
barely  furnished  but  spotlessly  clean.  Against 
the  farther  wall  she  saw  a  truckle-bed  covered 
with  a  blanket  of  cheerful  red  and  blue  stripes; 
she  saw  a  cupboard  on  which  were  tea-things;  a 
table;  two  chairs;  and  the  chair  on  which  she  had 
been  sitting.  And  that  was  all. 

Then  on  the  table  she  saw  lying  a  pair  of  green 
socks;  softly  green  they  were,  and  somewhat 


i78  The  Peacock  Feather 

faded,  and  beside  them  was  a  card  of  green — 
virulently  green — mending  wool. 

"O-oh!"  said  Anne,  with  a  little  shudder. 
But  after  a  moment  she  rose  from  her  knees  in 
order  to  examine  them  closer.  One  sock  had  a 
patch  of  virulent  green  in  the  heel,  a  neat  darn 
enough. 

"Long  practice,"  said  Anne,  with  a  little  shake 
of  the  head.  In  the  other  was  a  hole — quite  a 
good-sized  hole. 

For  a  moment  Anne  hesitated,  then,  with  a 
little  smile,  took  up  the  card  of  excruciatingly 
green  wool  and  broke  off  a  strand.  She  threaded 
the  needle  she  found  stuck  into  the  wool,  and 
fitted  the  sock  on  her  hand. 

"I  owe  him,"  said  Anne,  "some  small  payment 
for  the  shelter."  And  she  laughed,  seating  her- 
self again  in  the  armchair.  Neatly,  deftly,  she 
drew  the  wool  in  and  out  across  the  hole,  her  ears 
alert  to  catch  the  sound  of  returning  steps,  or  of 
carriage-wheels.  The  needle  moved  swiftly  and 
with  dexterity. 

What  is  one  to  make  of  her?  Lady  Anne 
Garland — the  proud,  the  much-courted,  the  to 
the  world  always  aloof  and  sometimes  disdainful 


A  Thunderstorm  179 

Lady  Anne  Garland — sitting  in  a  meagrely  fur- 
nished little  room  by  a  fire  of  sticks  and  fir-cones, 
darning  the  green  sock  of  a  vagabond  Piper! 
And  infinitely  more  incomprehensible  is  the  fact 
that  he — this  man  on  whom  she  had  only  twice 
before  set  eyes — was  causing  her  to  think  of  him 
in  a  manner  not  at  all  good  for  the  peace  of  her 
own  soul;  especially  as — and  here  a  distinct  con- 
fession must  be  made — she  was  already  quite  more 
than  half  in  love  with  a  man  she  had  never  even 
seen — the  writer  of  books  and  letters,  Robin  Adair. 

Human  nature  is  a  complex  and  curious  thing, 
though  by  those  who,  having  read  thus  far,  hold 
the  key  to  the  riddle  her  nature  may  perhaps  be 
understood. 

Ten  minutes  later  and  a  neat  darn  had  replaced 
the  gaping  hole.  Finding  no  implement  handy 
with  which  to  cut  the  wool  she  broke  it,  then 
placed  the  sock,  the  wool,  and  the  needle  again 
upon  the  table  in  much  the  same  position  they 
had  previously  occupied. 

She  got  up  from  her  chair  and  crossed  to  the 
window.  The  rain  was  still  coming  down  in 
torrents,  and  the  lightning  was  still  frequent,  but 
the  thunder  was  muttering  now  at  a  distance. 


i8o  The  Peacock  Feather 

Once  more  she  looked  back  into  the  room. 
What  a  queer  little  room  it  was,  and  how  entirely 
peaceful!  Why  did  the  villagers  imagine  it  to 
be  haunted?  Could  anything  be  more  restful, 
more  reposeful?  And  how  very  homely  it  looked 
in  spite  of  its  somewhat  bare  appearance!  And 
then  she  stopped  in  her  reflections,  for  the  sound 
of  wheels  had  struck  upon  her  ear.  A  moment 
later  the  carriage  came  in  sight  down  the  lane. 
On  the  box,  mackintoshed  and  stately,  were  both 
coachman  and  footman. 

Anne  laughed.  "It  really  was  unnecessary 
for  them  both  to  come,"  she  said  to  herself.  And 
then  Peter  was  out  of  the  carriage  and  up  the  path 
to  the  door. 

"It  is  here,"  he  said. 

Anne  came  forward.  "I  am  more  than  grate- 
ful," she  said.  "And  you  must  be  terribly  wet." 

"Oh,  I  shall  dry  again,"  he  said  carelessly. 

"It  was  very  good  of  you,"  said  Anne. 

"It  was  a  pleasure,"  said  Peter,  "to  drive  in  a 
carriage." 

"Oh!"  said  Anne  demurely. 

"And — "  he  continued,  and  stopped.  But 
in  his  heart  he  added,  "To  do  any  mortal  thing 


A  Thunderstorm  181 

for  you,  dear  Lady!"  But  these  speeches  had  a 
way  of  remaining  in  his  heart  without  reaching 
his  lips. 

He  unfurled  an  umbrella  which  he  had  pur- 
loined up  at  the  house. 

"The  rain  is  not  quite  so  furious  now,"  he  said 
as  he  opened  it. 

"Oh,  my  hat!"  said  Anne.  She  was  at  the 
hearth  and  back  beside  him  in  an  instant.  But 
in  the  transit  she  had  glanced  for  a  moment  at 
the  green  socks  on  the  table. 

Peter,  holding  the  umbrella  carefully  over  her, 
conducted  her  down  the  path.  The  footman  was 
standing  by  the  carriage  door.  Anne  held  out 
her  hand. 

"A  thousand  thanks!"  she  said. 

Peter  gripped  her  hand  hard.  "  I  was  delighted 
to  be  of  the  smallest  service,"  he  assured  her. 

The  footman  shut  the  door;  Peter  handed  him 
the  umbrella  and  he  mounted  with  it  to  the  box. 
The  carriage,  which  had  already  turned,  drove  up 
in  the  direction  of  the  white  house  on  the  hill. 

Peter  stood  looking  after  it  till  it  was  out  of 
sight,  then  went  back  into  the  cottage.  He  di- 
vested himself  of  his  extremely  wet  coat  and  hung 


1 82  The  Peacock  Feather 

it  on  the  back  of  a  chair  by  the  fire.  Not  the 
armchair;  that  he  gazed  at  almost  reverently, 
for  had  not  She  sat  in  it!  Then  he  went  to  the 
table  and  took  up  the  socks.  Arrested  suddenly 
by  something  he  saw,  he  examined  them  both 
carefully. 

"I  am  sure,"  said  Peter  aloud,  "that  I  only 
mended  one  sock,  and  now  both — "  He  looked 
at  a  darn  carefully.  "Oh,  oh!"  said  Peter,  a 
light  of  illumination  in  his  eyes.  It  was,  however, 
almost  incredible;  he  could  hardly  believe  his 
senses.  He  lifted  the  sock  nearer  his  face.  A 
faint  hint  of  lavender  came  to  him.  "Oh!"  said 
he  again;  "the  darling,  the  adorable  darling!" 

Peter  crossed  to  his  cupboard;  he  placed  the 
sock  carefully  inside  a  sheet  of  clean  manuscript 
paper  and  put  it  on  a  shelf. 

Then  he  sat  down  in  the  armchair  by  the  fire, 
filled  and  lit  his  pipe,  and  fell  into  an  abstracted 
reverie,  which  lasted  fully  half  an  hour. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  EVERLASTING  WHY 

AND  here  it  is  necessary  to  introduce  another 
character  to  the  reader,  one  of  whom  there  has 
already  been  a  momentary  glimpse,  but  who  now 
comes  forward  to  play  his  speaking  part.  He  is 
indeed  a  small  character,  a  young  character,  and 
might,  at  first  appearance,  seem  insignificant,  yet 
the  part  he  has  to  play  in  Peter's  drama  is  fraught 
with  much  consequence.  A  very  small  pebble 
dropped  into  a  pool  can  send  out  wide  circles,  so 
this  small  figure  dropped  into  Peter's  life  was  to 
play  a  far-reaching  and  important  part. 

The  little  figure  first  made  its  appearance  by 
peeping  through  the  hedge  in  front  of  Peter's 
cottage.  It  was  a  boy-child,  aged  perhaps  some 
seven  summers,  and  was  clad  in  short  blue  serge 
knickerbockers  and  a  blue  jersey. 

Peter  himself  was  sitting  by  the  door  piping. 
The  small  figure  thought  his  presence  unobserved, 

183 


184  The  Peacock  Feather 

but  Peter's  blue  eyes  were  watching  him  keenly. 
He  sat  very  still  as  he  piped,  and  the  music  was 
calling  the  child  to  him. 

It  was  a  friendly,  seductive  little  tune  that  he 
was  playing,  and  Peter  saw  the  child  move  towards 
the  gate.  He  did  not  look  at  him  now,  fearing 
by  the  slightest  sign  or  movement  to  startle  him. 
Suddenly  Peter  felt  a  light  touch  on  his  knee, 
gentle  as  the  touch  of  a  small  bird's  wing.  The 
child  had  stolen  up  the  path  and  was  beside 
him. 

Peter's  heart  leapt  with  pleasure.  It  was  as 
if  he  had  drawn  a  little  wild  woodland  creature 
near  him.  He  still  did  not  move,  but  he  let  the 
music  die  away. 

"I  like  that,"  said  the  small  boy,  gazing  at  him 
with  solemn  eyes,  "and  I  like  you." 

Peter's  eyes  wrinkled  at  the  corners  in  sheer 
delight.  It  was  a  good  many  years  since  a  child's 
voice  had  spoken  to  him,  since  a  child's  hand  had 
been  laid  upon  his  knee. 

"Oh,"  said  Peter,  smiling  with  pretended  lazi- 
ness, "do  you?  Well,  I  fancy  the  appreciation 
is  reciprocated.  What's  your  name?" 

"Dickie   Gordon,"   responded  the  small  boy. 


The  Everlasting  Why  185 

"I'm  staying  with  my  aunt  and  Lady  Anne  at 
the  White  House.  I  like  Lady  Anne." 

Peter  laughed.  "Your  judgment  and  intuition 
are  faultless,  my  son.  The  Lady  Anne  is  the 
divinest  woman  the  good  Lord  ever  created." 

"Then  you  like  her  too?"  queried  Dickie. 

"I  might  go  farther  than  that,"  said  Peter 
reflectively;  "adoration,  worship,  might  be  nearer 
my  sentiments.  But  how,  may  I  ask,  did  you 
find  your  way  down  here?" 

Dickie  smiled,  an  elfin  smile  of  pure  wickedness. 

"I  ran  away  from  nurse.  She's  got  the  baby 
in  the  perambulator.  It's  a  very  young  baby, 
and  perambulators  are  dull  things — they  can't 
get  over  stiles,  or  go  across  fields  or  even  the  tiniest 
kind  of  streams,  not  even  streams  with  a  plank 
across:  the  wheels  are  always  too  wide.  And 
nurse  doesn't  understand  anything,  not  why  fields 
are  nicer  than  roads,  and  why  it's  pleasant  to 
stand  still  in  a  wood  and  listen,  and  why  some 
walks  are  nice  ways  and  some  walks  dull  and 
horrid.  She  thinks  everything's  just  all  the  same. 
And  I  can't  explain  things  to  her,  things  I  know 
in  my  inside.  So  I  just  ran  away  and  came  to 
see  you." 


1 86  The  Peacock  Feather 

"  You  did,  did  you?  "  responded  Peter.  And  back 
his  mind  swung  to  the  memory  of  another  small 
boy,  one  of  whom  the  Lady  Anne  had  written 
to  him,  and  of  another  non-understanding  grown- 
up. Oh,  those  Olympians  who,  from  their  heights 
of  common  sense,  cannot  stoop  to  the  level  of 
childhood! — for  stooping  they  assuredly  would 
term  it,  though  Peter  took  another  view  of  the 
respective  levels.  Yet,  whatever  the  levels,  the 
fact  undoubtedly  remained  the  same:  their  utter 
and  entire  incapacity  of  seeing  eye  to  eye,  of 
hearing  ear  to  ear,  of  feeling  heart  to  heart  with 
a  child.  And,  mused  Peter,  it  was  unquestion- 
able whose  was  the  greater  loss.  And  then  he 
roused  himself. 

"But  how  about  my  duty?"  he  demanded. 
"Oughtn't  I  to  bind  you,  fetter  you,  and  carry 
you  back  a  prisoner  to  that  perambulator,  that 
very  young  baby,  and  that  non-comprehending 
nurse?" 

Dickie  looked  at  him. 

"You  won't,"  he  said  comfortably;  "besides, 
I  want  to  talk." 

"Humph!"  said  Peter,  again  smiling  lazily; 
"well,  talk.  I  shall  doubtless  make  a  good  audi- 


The  Everlasting  Why  187 

ence,  since  the  hearing  of  speech  is  now  something 
of  a  novelty  to  me." 

Dickie  looked  at  him  again.  The  speech  was 
not  entirely  clear,  but  the  encouragement  to  talk 
was. 

With  a  deep  breath  he  began:  "Nurse  says  this 
cottage  is  a  bad  place,  and  you're  friends  with  the 
Devil.  Is  he  really  an  unpleasant  person?  You 
don't  look's  if  you'd  be  friends  with  him  if  he 
were." 

"Hmm,"  said  Peter,  dubious,  his  eyes  never- 
theless twinkling;  "I  cannot  say  that  I  have 
honestly  a  very  close  acquaintanceship  with  him 
— at  least,  I  hope  not.  But  I  have  never  fancied 
him  a  pleasant  person.  He  has" — Peter  sought 
wildly  in  his  mind  for  the  best  reason  for  the 
averred  unpleasantness — "so  little  idea  of  playing 
the  game." 

"Yes?"  It  was  Dickie's  turn  to  be  dubious 
now. 

"Oh,"  thought  Peter  distractedly,  "I  have  not 
only  to  make  statements,  but  I  have  to  substan- 
tiate them!"  Aloud  he  spoke,  firmly,  and  with 
an  air  of  conviction:  "He  does  not  play  the  game, 
because  he  pretends  to  be  friendly  when  he  isn't, 


1 88  The  Peacock  Feather 

and  he  tells  us  things  are  nice  when  they  aren't." 
This,  at  all  events,  was  good  and  orthodox  teaching. 
Peter  patted  himself  on  the  back,  so  to  speak. 

"Like  the  apple  what  Adam  and  Eve  ate,"  said 
Dickie  solemnly;  "they  thought  it  was  going  to 
taste  so  nice,  and  make  them  very  wise,  but  it 
was  a  sour  apple,  and  they  had  to  go  away  out  of 
the  garden  'cause  they  ate  it." 

"Exactly!"  said  Peter,  much  relieved  that 
Dickie  should  be  taking  the  initiative  as  chronicler 
of  biblical  events,  feeling,  be  it  stated,  somewhat 
hazy  on  these  subjects  himself. 

There  was  a  pause.  Then,  with  a  deep  sigh, 
Dickie  spoke  again. 

"I  wish  I  knew  things." 

"What  things?"  asked  Peter,  amused. 

"Lots  of  things,"  said  Dickie.  There  was  a 
world  of  unconscious  yearning  in  the  child's  voice. 
"I  want  to  know  lots  of  things.  What  made  God 
think  the  world?  Did  He  think  me  from  the 
beginning,  'cause  He  knew  everything?  Why 
did  He  wait  till  now  to  make  me?  I'd  so  lots 
sooner  have  been  a  Viking.  Why  doesn't  He  let 
us  choose  what  we  are  to  be?  Why  are  some  days 
nice  and  other  days  horrid,  though  everything 


The  Everlasting  Why  189 

looks  just  'xactly  the  same  and  just  as  sunny? 
Why  don't  I  know  the  whys  of  things?" 

"Oh!"  said  Peter  with  a  long-drawn  breath, 
and  a  silence  fell,  while  suddenly,  and  perhaps 
for  almost  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Peter  faced 
the  great  eternal  Question — the  Everlasting  Why 
of  the  Universe.  And  because  he  had  no  answer 
to  give,  because  he  had  not  as  yet  the  faintest 
inkling  of  the  answer,  he  was  silent,  though,  all  un- 
consciously, the  child  had  put  before  him  the  prob- 
lem his  soul  was  inarticulately  striving  to  solve. 

"Why?"  said  Dickie  again,  gazing  at  him. 
And  then  Peter  replied. 

"You  had  better  ask  Lady  Anne,"  he  responded, 
basely  shifting  the  responsibility.  Yet  though  he 
half  acknowledged  the  baseness,  he  knew  con- 
fidently that  she  must  be  better  able  to  deal  with 
the  question  than  he,  for  surely  she,  enshrined 
where  she  was  in  his  thoughts,  would  have  some 
knowledge,  some  answer  to  give,  something  to 
which  he  might  listen  with  as  great  confidence 
as  the  child  beside  him  would  listen. 

And  then  suddenly  down  the  lane  came  a  shrill 
voice,  causing  Dickie  to  start  and  Peter  to  look 
up  quickly. 


190  The  Peacock  Feather 

"Master  Dickie,  Master  Dickie!"  The  tones 
were  unquestionably  somewhat  strident. 

"That's  nurse,"  whispered  Dickie. 

"So  I  concluded,"  said  Peter  dryly.  "What's 
to  be  done?" 

"S'pose  I  must  go,"  announced  Dickie  ruefully. 

"Master  Dickie!"  The  voice  was  close  now, 
and  the  next  moment  a  heated  woman  in  nurse's 
garb  and  wheeling  a  perambulator  came  into  view. 

Peter  got  up  and  went  down  to  the  gate,  hold- 
ing Dickie's  small  brown  hand  close  in  his  big  one. 

"I  believe,"  said  Peter  courteously,  "that  you 
are  looking  for  Master  Dickie;  here  he  is." 

The  woman  paused,  flabbergasted.  "With 
you!"  she  ejaculated. 

"With  me,"  said  Peter,  smiling.  "And  after 
all  he  has  heard  about  me,"  he  continued  seriously, 
"it's  a  wonder  that  he  ventured  near  this  cottage." 

The  nurse  looked  at  Peter.  There  was  some- 
thing in  his  manner  that  checked  the  outburst  of 
indignation  that  was  perilously  near  the  surface. 

"I've  been  that  worried!"  she  said,  and  she 
stopped  to  wipe  her  face  with  a  large  white 
handkerchief. 

Peter  appreciated  her  concern.     It  is  unques- 


The  Everlasting  Why  191 

tionably  trying  to  lose  a  small  boy  entrusted  to 
your  care,  especially  on  an  exceedingly  warm 
summer  day,  and  have  no  notion  what  has  be- 
come of  him.  Peter  felt  a  bit  of  a  culprit. 

"I'm  very  sorry  you've  been  bothered,"  he 
said  contritely.  "He — "  and  Peter  paused;  he 
could  not  give  Dickie  away. 

"I  came  to  see  him,"  announced  Dickie  calmly, 
"because  I  wanted  to  find  out  what  he  was  like. 
Now  if  you  want  me  I'll  come  home.  Good-bye, 
Mr.  Piper."  He  held  out  his  hand,  which  Peter 
shook  gravely. 

"You're  a  bad  boy,"  said  the  nurse,  virtuous 
indignation  in  her  voice. 

Dickie  scorned  a  reply. 

"He  really  hasn't  come  to  any  harm,"  said 
Peter  apologetically. 

"That's  as  may  be,"  said  the  nurse  with  majes- 
tic significance,  divided  between  her  previous 
conception  of  Peter  and  the  now  very  obvious 
fact  that  he  was  of  gentle  birth;  "that's  as  may  be. 
But  his  aunt  won't  care  to  hear  of  his  goings-on, 
nor  my  Lady  either,  for  that  matter." 

"  Lady  Anne  will  understand,"  protested  Dickie, 
voicing  Peter's  own  opinion. 


192  The  Peacock  Feather 

"She  may  and  she  mayn't,"  was  the  tart  reply. 
"Now  you'll  please  to  come  home;  we're  half  an 
hour  late  as  it  is." 

"I  said  I  was  ready  before,"  remarked  Dickie 
calmly. 

The  nurse  jerked  the  perambulator  round  in  a 
manner  that  caused  the  very  young  baby  within 
to  open  its  eyes  in  a  kind  of  mild  protest. 

"I'll  come  and  see  you  again,"  said  Dickie 
confidently  to  Peter. 

The  nurse  pulled  him  by  the  arm.  "You'll 
do  nothing  of  the  kind,  Master  Dickie." 

"Huh!"  said  Dickie,  "you  don't  know.  I 
shall  ask  Lady  Anne." 

And  then  the  three  disappeared  down  the  lane. 

"The  Lady  Anne,"  remarked  Peter  to  himself, 
"is  evidently  a  divinity  to  another  and  much 
smaller  person  than  I.  I  don't  exactly  love  that 
nurse,"  he  continued  reflectively,  "but  I  fancy 
she  has  her  hands  full." 

And  whistling  airily,  Peter  passed  up  the  little 
path  to  the  cottage. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

PIPER  AND  AUTHOR 

UP  at  the  White  House  Lady  Anne  Garland 
was  entertaining  Millicent  Sheldon.  The  enter- 
tainment to  Lady  Anne  proved  somewhat  weighty. 
The  carefully  mended  Millicent  was  a  different 
person  from  the  one  she  had  previously  known. 
Her  whole  aspect  was  altered  in  Anne's  eyes.  She 
no  longer  saw  her,  as  Millicent  no  doubt  saw 
herself,  a  calm  gracious  Madonna,  stretching  out 
healing  hands  to  a  weary  humanity.  To  Anne 
she  was  simply  a  very  ordinary  woman  who  had 
failed  the  man  she  had  once  loved — or  professed 
to  love — in  his  need. 

And  Anne  suddenly  realized  that  for  all  Milli- 
cent's  grand  and  noble  statements  she  had  no  use 
for  failures.  Let  a  man  have  his  foot  firmly 
planted  on  the  ladder  of  success,  albeit  on  the 
lowest  rung,  Millicent  spoke  of  him  with  gracious 
condescension,  held  out  the  hand  of  friendship  to 

13  193 


194  The  Peacock  Feather 

him.  Those  who  had  fallen  from  the  ladder,  or 
who  were  struggling  towards  it  with  little  chance  of 
reaching  it,  were  not  in  her  eyes  worth  a  moment's 
consideration.  Truly  the  cracks  were  horribly, 
terribly  conspicuous,  and  Anne  had  much  ado 
to  prevent  Millicent  from  recognizing  that  she 
perceived  them.  She  looked  forward  to  the  day  of 
Millicent's  departure  with  a  guilty  hopefulness,  a 
secret  longing  which  she  felt  was  almost  indecent 
in  a  hostess.  And  then  something  happened  to 
delay  that  day. 

Dickie,  the  solemn-eyed  Dickie,  fell  ill.  It 
was  one  of  those  sudden  swift  illnesses  of  child- 
hood that  grip  the  hearts  of  parents  with  a  terrible 
fear,  and  Anne  and  Millicent,  who  loved  the  small 
boy  as_if  he  were  their  own,  watched  the  little 
fever-stricken  body  with  grave  anxiety,  and 
dreaded  to  think  what  news  the  next  mail  to 
India  might  not  carry. 

The  villagers  came  daily  to  inquire.  Voices 
were  hushed  when  the  child's  name  was  men- 
tioned. Peter  alone,  to  whom  no  one  ever  spoke, 
did  not  know  of  the  illness.  He  only  wondered 
why  Dickie,  who  had  escaped  his  vigilant  nurse 
more  than  once,  did  not  come  to  the  cottage. 


Piper  and  Author  195 

And  then  one  day,  when  the  fever  was  running 
high,  Dickie  began  a  plaint,  a  piteous  little  moan- 
ing for  the  Piper.  Backwards  and  forwards  on 
the  pillow  tossed  the  small  fevered  head;  the  dry 
lips  called  ceaselessly  to  the  Piper  to  come  and 
pipe  to  him.  In  some  vague  way  Dickie  had  con- 
founded him  with  the  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin,  and 
wanted  Peter  to  take  him  through  the  mountain 
and  show  him  sparrows  brighter  than  peacocks 
and  horses  with  eagles'  wings.  Peter  had  told 
Dickie  many  a  tale  of  fancy  during  his  visit  to 
the  cottage. 

"Who  is  it  he  wants?"  asked  the  doctor  sharply, 
watching  the  child.  "Can  no  one  fetch  him?" 

Anne,  who  was  near  the  bed,  stood  up. 

"I  know,"  she  said.  "I  will  write  a  note  and 
send " 

The  doctor,  a  little  man  with  a  crusty  manner 
and  a  heart  as  tender  as  a  woman's,  interrupted 
her  testily. 

"Can't  you  go  yourself?"  he  snapped.  "I 
know  what  servants  are  when  they're  sent  on 
messages.  The  child  is — I'm  anxious,  and  as 
cross  as  an  old  bear,"  he  concluded. 

Anne  was  already  at  the  door. 

.  .•>•*"«• 


196  The  Peacock  Feather 

"I'll  not  be  long,"  she  said.  "Miss  Haldane 
will  be  here  if  you  need  her.  I'll  send  her  to  you. 
Nurse  is  with  the  baby  and  Mrs.  Sheldon  is  lying 
down.  She  was  up  most  of  last  night." 

A  few  moments  later  Anne  was  walking  down 
the  drive.  It  was  a  grey  afternoon,  lapped  in  soft 
clouds,  and  with  a  little  sad  wind  in  the  trees 
suggestive  of  autumn,  though  it  was  only  August. 

Anne  felt  a  sensation  of  depression,  a  faint 
foreboding  as  of  impending  ill.  She  told  herself 
that  it  was  merely  fatigue.  Dickie  would  get 
well — she  knew  he  would  get  well.  And  yet  she 
did  not  really  think  that  anxiety  regarding  Dickie 
was  causing  this  depression.  It  was  something 
more  remote,  something  intangible  and  vague. 

She  determined  not  to  think  about  it — to  throw 
aside  the  slight  uneasiness.  Yet  again  and  again 
it  crept  over  her  in  insidious  little  waves,  despite 
all  her  efforts  to  the  contrary. 

Peter  was  busy  writing  when  the  knock  came 
on  his  door.  Now,  whether  it  was  telepathy  or 
clairvoyance  is  not  known,  but  his  heart  jumped 
at  the  knock,  and  he  got  up  quickly,  opening  wide 
the  door. 


Piper  and  Author  197 

"What  is  wrong?"  he  queried  anxiously  as 
he  saw  Anne's  face.  He  almost  forgot  to  be 
surprised  at  her  presence  there. 

"It's  Dickie,"  said  Anne.  "He's  ill,  very  ill. 
The  child  has  got  some  queer  ideas  into  his  head. 
He  has  mixed  you  up  in  an  odd  way  with  the  Pied 
Piper  of  Hamelin.  He  has  been  talking  about 
you  a  great  deal — half  in  delirium,  you  understand. 
He  wants  you  to  pipe  to  him."  She  stopped. 

"Oh!"  ejaculated  Peter,  his  voice  full  of  sym- 
pathy. "The  pathetic  little  mite!  I'll  come  at 
once."  And  then  he,  too,  stopped,  hesitated. 
"If  you  will  go  on,"  he  said,  'Til  follow  you." 

"Can't  you,"  asked  Anne,  "come  back  with 
me  now  at  once?  I  fancy — I  may  be  wrong — 
that  the  doctor  thinks  every  minute  is  of 
importance." 

Peter  flushed.  "Of  course,"  he  said,  "I'll  come 
now.  It  was  only — "  Again  he  stopped,  and 
Anne  waited,  wondering. 

"Only,"  said  Peter  desperately,  "that  I  thought 
perhaps  you  would  rather  not  walk  with  me. 
I — the  villagers,  you  know,  look  upon  me  with 
disfavour." 

Anne  raised  her  chin.     There  was  a  little  regal 


198  The  Peacock  Feather 

air  in  the  gesture.  "But  really,"  she  assured  him, 
"I  am  not  accustomed  to  consider  the  opinion 
of  the  villagers." 

"Oh,  you  idiot,"  groaned  Peter  inwardly, 
"you  idiot,  you  double-dyed  dolt!  Now  you've 
offended  her,  though  I  protest  your  intentions 
were  good."  Aloud  he  said  meekly,  "I'll  come 
with  you  at  once." 

He  turned  and  picked  up  his  hat  from  a  chair. 
As  the  long  peacock  feather  caught  his  eye,  again 
he  groaned  inwardly.  He  was  for  flinging  the 
hat  aside,  but  Lady  Anne  was  watching  him.  He 
put  it  on  his  head  desperately,  and  came  out  on 
to  the  path  beside  her,  feeling  for  all  the  world  a 
mountebank,  a  popinjay,  a  fool.  Why,  oh  why! 
had  he  maliciously  defied  the  Fates?  Why,  oh 
why !  had  this  peacock  feather  lain  in  his  path  once 
long  ago?  And  still  further,  why  had  he  been 
idiot  enough  to  pick  it  up  and  wear  it  merely  in  a 
spirit  of  contradiction,  because  once  upon  a  time 
a  woman  had  announced  her  belief  in  a  supersti- 
tion regarding  peacock  feathers. 

He  attempted  to  appear  unconcerned,  at  his 
ease,  but  he  was  aware  that  the  attempt  was  a 
poor  one.  Nor  did  the  amazed  glances  of  the 


Piper  and  Author  199 

villagers,  as  they  crossed  the  green,  tend  to  re- 
assure him.  Yet  here  was  Lady  Anne  walking 
calmly,  quietly,  entirely  at  her  ease,  entirely 
dignified.  Why  was  he  ass  enough  to  care  for 
the  glances  of  these  yokels!  Yet  he  knew  it  was 
not  for  himself  that  he  cared,  but  for  his  Lady, 
his  divinity,  who  had  deigned  herself  to  visit  his 
cottage,  to  ask  him  with  her  own  lips  to  perform 
a  service  for  her.  He  longed  for  a  flow  of  words 
to  come  to  him,  yet  none  but  the  most  banal 
remark  presented  itself  to  his  mind,  therefore  he 
walked  beside  her  in  silence. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  drive  Peter  suddenly 
shivered,  why,  he  did  not  know,  for  the  day,  though 
grey,  was  hot.  It  was  as  if  some  slight  indefinable 
feeling  of  apprehension  had  struck  him. 

Anne  glanced  at  him.  "Cold?"  she  queried, 
smiling. 

"No,"  responded  Peter,  smiling  in  response. 
"I  fancy  it  was — according  to  the  old  adage — a 
goose  walking  over  my  grave." 

"Oh!"  said  Anne.  And  the  slight  feeling  of 
uneasiness,  which  had  temporarily  departed, 
returned. 

"Which,  so  say  the  superstitious  folk,"  con- 


200  The  Peacock  Feather 

tinned  Peter  lightly,  "denotes  misfortune  to  the 
owner  of  the  grave.  Personally — "  He  broke 
off  with  a  slight  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

"You  are  not  a  believer  in  omens  and  super- 
stitions," suggested  Anne  in  conclusion.  "So  I 
might  suppose.  Your — your  hat  decoration  is 
generally  regarded  as  provocative  of  ill-luck," 
she  smiled. 

Peter  flushed.  "It's  a  fool  thing  to  wear,"  he 
said  lamely,  "but " 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  Anne  demurely,  "it 
fits  in  with  your  r61e.  I  believe  it  was  the 
rumour  of  the  peacock  feather  that  first  gave  me 
the  courage  to  ask  you  to  play  to  me.  It  sounded 
fantastic,  unusual.  I  dared  to  think  that  you 
might  respond  to  an  unusual  invitation.  The 
feather,  I  repeat,  gave  me  courage." 

"Then,"  said  Peter  gallantly,  "I  wear  it  with 
a  good  will  as  an  omen  of  fortune's  favours.  You 
did  not,  however,  ask  me  a  second  time." 

Anne  drew  a  quick  breath.  "No,"  she  re- 
sponded. ' '  Yet — you  came. ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  Peter  quietly,  "I  came." 

Anne  might  have  spoken  again,  but  they 
were  at  the  door  by  now,  and  they  passed 


Piper  and  Author  201 

into  the  hall  together  and  up  the  wide  shallow 
stairs. 

The  sick-room  was  in  half  light,  for  the  curtains 
were  partly  drawn.  The  doctor  was  sitting  by 
the  bed,  his  eyes  watching,  grave.  Miss  Haldane 
was  at  a  little  distance.  They  both  looked  up  as 
the  two  entered. 

Anne  crossed  to  the  bedside,  Peter  following. 

"Dickie,"  said  Anne,  softly  and  distinctly,  "I 
have  brought  the  Piper  to  you."  She  sat  down 
and  took  one  of  the  small  hot  hands  in  hers. 

Peter  came  to  the  foot  of  the  bed.  He  drew 
his  pipe  from  his  pocket.  As  the  first  sweet 
notes  of  the  pipe  filled  the  room  Dickie  lay  still. 
It  was  the  friendly,  seductive  little  tune  Peter 
had  first  played  to  the  child.  No  one  stirred 
and  the  magic  piping  breathed  through  the  air. 

"More,"  said  Dickie,  as  Peter  stopped.  And 
the  request  was  quiet,  conscious. 

Peter  came  a  little  nearer.  "This,  Dickie,  is 
the  sleepy  song  the  Pied  Piper  played  the  children 
when  he  carried  them  away  to  the  Wonderful 
Land.  So  shut  your  eyes  and  listen,  and  you  will 
sleep  and  dream  of  running  streams,  and  flowers, 


202  The  Peacock  Feather 

and  of  cool  green  grass,  and  beautiful  birds,  and 
horses  with  eagles'  wings,  that  will  carry  you  away 
gently  on  their  backs  to  the  place  where  children 
get  well."  Peter's  voice  dropped  to  a  murmur. 

And  then  once  more  came  the  music,  a  low 
crooning  lullaby,  full  of  adorable  restful  tender- 
ness. Dickie's  eyes  closed  drowsily.  The  music 
crooned  on,  rocking  softly,  soothingly.  Then 
Dickie  gave  a  little  gentle  sigh,  his  fingers  relaxed 
their  hold  on  Anne's,  his  small  hand  fell  open  on 
the  counterpane,  and  Dickie  slept. 

"Thank  God!"  breathed  the  old  doctor.  And 
he  took  off  his  spectacles  and  wiped  them. 

Peter  looked  at  Anne.  She  nodded,  and  rose 
from  her  chair.  They  stole  softly  from  the  room 
together.  They  passed  down  the  corridor.  Then 
Anne  turned  and  spoke. 

"  I  can't  say  anything  but '  Thank  you. '  She 
smiled,  a  little  wavering  smile,  and  her  eyes  were 
misty. 

"Oh,"  said  Peter  with  a  huge  sigh,  "I'm  glad. 
He's — he's  such  a  jolly  little  chap." 

And  then  he  looked  up,  for  a  woman  was  coming 
towards  them. 

"It  is  Mrs.  Sheldon,  Dickie's  aunt,"  said  Anne, 


Piper  and  Author  203 

explanatory.  "She — "  And  she  broke  off, 
amazed  at  the  sudden  rigidity  of  Peter's  face. 

"Oh!"  said  Millicent  as  she  saw  the  two.  And 
she  stopped  dead. 

"What  is  it?"  queried  Anne,  astonished.  "Do 
you  two  know  each  other?" 

"I  once  had  the  pleasure  of  Mr.  Car- 
den's  acquaintance,"  said  Millicent  stiffly,  "but 
now " 

"Mr.  Garden!"  ejaculated  Anne.  And  a 
light  dawned  upon  her,  a  light  of  painful 
significance. 

"I  was  not  aware  he  was  in  the  house,"  said 
Millicent  coldly.  "I  was  not  aware  that  you 
knew  him." 

Then  Peter  spoke.  "As  Peter  Garden  Lady 
Anne  does  not  know  me,"  he  said  steadily,  though 
his  face  was  white.  "She  knows  me  only  as 
Peter  the  vagabond  Piper." 

"An  alias,"  said  Millicent  scornfully.  "One, 
no  doubt,  of  several." 

Anne  was  waiting,  silent.  Peter  had  a  sudden 
thought  that  she  was  waiting  for  him  to  speak,  to 
deny  the  accusation  if  he  could.  He  felt  utterly 
and  entirely  weary. 


2O4  The  Peacock  Feather 

"Oh  no!"  he  said  bitterly;  "only  one  other — 
Robin  Adair." 

"Oh!"  said  Anne,  shrinking  as  if  the  name  had 
been  a  blow. 

"It  really  does  not  signify  what  you  choose  to 
call  yourself,"  said  Millicent.  "But  I  do  not 
care  that  my  friends  should  be  deceived." 

Peter  drew  in  his  breath  sharply.  He  looked 
straight  at  her,  and  in  her  eyes  he  could  read  the 
true  cause  for  her  anger.  "You  are  right,"  he 
said  quietly.  "And  I  have  deceived  her."  He 
turned  to  Anne.  Her  head  was  erect,  her  face 
white,  motionless.  Indignation,  anger,  contempt, 
he  saw  all  three  in  her  eyes. 

He  turned  without  a  word  and  passed  down  the 
stairs,  across  the  hall,  and  through  the  hall  door, 
which  he  closed  softly  behind  him  as  he  went. 


CHAPTER  XX 

FAREWELL 

THE  night  was  far  spent.  For  hours  Peter  had 
sat  by  his  table  with  writing  materials  before  him, 
and  at  length  his  letter  was  written,  ended. 

"It  is  the  last  time  I  shall  write  to  you,  but  I 
ask  you  to  condone  my  conduct — at  least,  suffi- 
ciently to  read  what  I  have  written.  I  know  I 
have  no  excuse  to  make.  To  say  that  my  decep- 
tion arose  from  the  knowledge  that  if  you  once 
knew  Peter  the  Piper  and  Robin  Adair  as  one  and 
the  same  I  should  lose  your  letters  is  of  course 
none.  I  deceived  you  deliberately,  and  broke 
the  compact  that  our  identities  should  remain 
unknown  to  each  other.  Though  I  did  not  first 
break  it,  nor  was  it  broken  of  my  will.  Being 
broken  by  fate,  however,  I  should  have  told  you. 

"And  by  now  you  will  have  realized  that  you 
extended  the  hand  of  friendship  to  one  who  had 

205 


2o6  The  Peacock  Feather 

entirely  forfeited  the  right  to  it.  Is  it,  perhaps, 
any  compensation  to  you  to  know  that  your  letters, 
your  kindness,  have  at  least  been  received  with 
humble  gratitude,  with  the  most  intense  and  over- 
whelming pleasure  by  one  however  unworthy  to 
receive  them? 

"I  shall  leave  this  cottage  at  daylight.  My 
presence  here  longer  would,  I  know,  be  distasteful 
to  you.  I  have  no  right  to  ask  your  forgiveness, 
yet  if  one  day  you  could  extend  it  to  me,  and  think 
less  hardly  of  me,  I  should  be  glad.  The  one 
thing  I  can  do,  and  believe  you  would  wish  me  to 
do,  is  to  destroy  your  letters.  I  cannot  destroy 
the  memory  of  them — that  is  impossible,  and  I 
dare  to  hope  that  in  your  generosity  you  will  not 
grudge  it  to  me. 

"  Presently  I  shall  try  to  write  again,  and  if  ever 
fate  should  throw  my  work  in  your  path,  and  you 
deign  to  read  it,  then  know  that  whatever  in  it 
is  of  worth,  whatever  is  in  the  smallest  degree 
of  good,  has  been  inspired  by  the  thought  of 
you. 

"For  all  your  blessed  kindness,  for  the  fact  that 
you  are  you  and  are  in  the  world,  I  shall  through- 
out my  life  be  grateful. 


Farewell  207 

"Perhaps  one  day  I  may  get  the  chance  to 
atone. 

"PETER  GARDEN." 

The  letter  written,  Peter  got  up  from  his  chair 
and  crossed  to  the  fireplace.  In  a  few  moments 
a  flame  sprang  up,  and  some  bluish  papers  twisted 
and  shrivelled  in  its  heat.  Presently  nothing  was 
left  but  a  small  heap  of  grey  ashes. 

Peter  sat  very  still.  There  was  a  lump  in  his 
throat,  and  he  swallowed  hard  once  or  twice,  but 
his  eyes  were  dry.  A  bird  chirped  in  the  bushes 
outside  the  cottage;  it  was  answered  by  another 
and  another.  The  air  became  full  of  a  chorus  of 
twitterings  and  chirpings. 

Peter  roused  himself.  He  picked  up  his  hat 
and  a  bundle  from  the  table  and  went  to  the  cot- 
tage door.  In  the  east  the  sky  was  flushing  to 
rose  and  lavender.  Peter  went  down  the  path. 
He  opened  the  little  gate.  A  moment  later  it 
had  swung  to  behind  him,  and  he  was  walking 
down  the  dusty  road. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

A  WOUNDED  SKYLARK 

Miss  HALDANE  was  worried,  perturbed.  Her 
usually  cheerful  old  face  was  wrinkled  into  lines 
of  perplexity,  her  eyes  were  anxious. 

Something  was  wrong  at  the  White  House. 
Dickie  had  slept  peacefully  throughout  the  night, 
and  with  the  extraordinary  recuperation  of  child- 
ren, had  demanded  bread  and  milk  on  awaking. 
It  was  perfectly  natural  to  suppose  that  an  air  of 
jubilation  should  prevail.  Yet  Lady  Anne  was 
pale,  silent,  aloof;  Millicent  Sheldon  slightly  cold 
and  frigid.  What  in  the  name  of  wonder  did  it 
signify?  Vaguely  Miss  Haldane  connected  the  ex- 
traordinary atmosphere  with  the  Piper.  It  was 
true  that  he  had  been  accountable,  under  Pro- 
vidence, for  Dickie's  marvellous  recovery,  yet  Miss 
Haldane  distinctly  regarded  him  as  a  bird  of  ill- 
omen,  and  in  her  heart  bitterly  regretted  that 
necessity  had  called  him  to  the  house. 

208 


A  Wounded  Skylark  209 

Throughout  the  day  she  fidgeted  and  fluttered 
interiorly,  keeping  sharp  and  anxious  watch  on 
Anne's  pale  and  almost  stern  face,  without,  how- 
ever, in  the  least  appearing  to  do  so.  At  tea- 
time  she  found  herself  alone  in  the  drawing-room 
with  Millicent,  Anne  being  in  Dickie's  room. 

Then  Miss  Haldane  could  contain  her  anxiety 
no  longer.  She  disliked  Millicent  Sheldon,  but 
it  was  a  case  of  any  port  in  a  storm.  Having 
poured  out  tea  and  handed  Millicent  a  cup,  she 
prefaced  her  first  remark  by  a  slight  and  nervous 
cough. 

"Anne  looks  very  pale,"  she  said  tentatively. 
"I  hoped  to  see  her  looking  better  now  our  anxiety 
is  practically  at  an  end." 

"Yes,"  said  Millicent,  taking  a  sip  of  tea. 

This  was  unsatisfactory.  Miss  Haldane  re- 
turned to  the  charge  more  openly. 

"I  hope,"  she  said,  "that  nothing  has  worried 
her?" 

Millicent  put  down  her  teacup.  "It  is  dis- 
tinctly unfortunate,"  she  said,  "that  that  man 
who  called  himself  Peter  the  Piper  should  have 
come  into  this  neighbourhood."  She  made  the 
remark  with  a  calm  majesty  of  manner. 
14 


210  The  Peacock  Feather 

"Oh?"  queried  Miss  Haldane,  pricking  up  her 
ears  and  looking  for  all  the  world  like  a  terrier  on 
the  scent  of  a  rat;  "do  you  know  anything  about 
him?" 

"Only  that  he  has  spent  three  years  in  prison 
for  forgery,"  said  Millicent  gravely.  "Anne  has 
got  unaccountably  familiar  with  him  in  some  way, 
and  is  naturally  vexed  to  find  her  friendship  mis- 
placed." She  puckered  her  smooth  white  brow 
with  an  air  of  grave,  gracious  anxiety,  but  there 
was  a  hard  expression  in  her  eyes. 

Miss  Haldane  ruffled  like  a  small  angry  bird, 
the  terrier  expression  forgotten. 

"Lady  Anne,"  she  said  with  dignity,  "is  cer- 
tainly not  familiar  with  him.  You  must  have 
been  misinformed." 

"Really!"  Millicent  lifted  her  eyebrows  coolly. 
"From  Anne's  own  showing  yesterday,  she  knew 
considerably  more  about  him  than  probably  you 
or  I  had  the  smallest  idea  of.  She  has  not  seen 
fit  to  confide  in  me,  but  it  was  entirely  apparent." 

Miss  Haldane  sat  very  upright.  "If  Anne  did 
know  more  of  him  than  we  imagine,"  she  remarked 
firmly,  "it  shows  that  he  was  a  more  desirable 
person  to  know  than  I  had  supposed." 


211 


Millicent  controlled  her  temper  admirably. 
Of  course,  it  was  entirely  absurd,  but  the  old 
thing  was,  unquestionably,  trying  to  snub  her. 

"A  man  who  has  been  in  prison!"  she  remarked, 
with  an  air  of  quiet  finality  and  an  exasperating 
little  laugh. 

Miss  Haldane's  usually  dim  old  eyes  blazed. 
"Under  God  we  owe  Dickie's  recovery  to  him," 
she  said  with  quiet  dignity.  "Might  not  that 
make  us  a  little  charitable  towards  him?" 

And  Millicent,  for  her  outward  imperturbability 
of  manner,  was  annoyedly  conscious  that  Miss 
Haldane  had  scored. 

And  then  Anne  walked  in. 

"Am  I  interrupting  confidences?"  she  asked, 
with  an  attempt  at  her  usual  lightness  of  manner. 
"Dickie  is  a  fraud;  he  is  demanding  bread  and 
jam,  or  at  least  toast  and  honey.  I  consider  he 
has  basely  deceived  us  all." 

And  then  she  saw  that  the  atmosphere  was  really 
strained,  tense.  She  pretended  blindness,  how- 
ever, and,  sitting  down,  asked  for  some  tea.  While 
drinking  it  she  made  a  few  airy  remarks,  to  which 
Miss  Haldane  responded  absent-mindedly,  and 
Millicent  with  a  pained  and  almost  holy  silence. 


212  The  Peacock  Feather 

Then  Millicent  got  up.  "I  am  going  to  see 
Dickie,"  she  said. 

As  the  door  closed  behind  her,  Miss  Haldane 
gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"How  I  dislike  that  woman!"  she  said. 

"I  saw  she  had  ruffled  you,"  said  Anne 
soothingly. 

"She  was  impertinent,"  remarked  Miss  Hal- 
dane with  dignity. 

"Millicent!  Impertinent!"  Anne's  eyes  were 
big  with  amazement.  "My  dear  Matty!"  She 
might  be  many  things,  but  impertinent  seemed 
the  last  word  to  connect  with  the  large  statuesque 
Millicent. 

"Impertinent,"  said  Miss  Haldane  firmly.  "It 
is  only  her  size  that  makes  it  not  usually  apparent. 
If  she  were  a  small  woman,  it  would  be  obvious 
to  the  meanest  intelligence.  And  she  is  distinctly 
ungrateful.  Whatever  that  man  has  done,  what- 
ever he  is,  we  owe  him  a  debt  of  gratitude." 

"Oh!"  said  Anne,  her  eyes  clouding;  "she was 
talking  about  him?" 

"Yes.  My  dear,  have  you  considered  that 
even  if  he  did  wrong  in  the  past  he  may  have 
repented?  And  he  did  help  Dickie." 


A  Wounded  Skylark  213 

"Yes,"  said  Anne  slowly;  "he  helped  Dickie." 

"Even  if,"  continued  Miss  Haldane  earnestly, 
"he  has  once  been  in  prison,  he  cannot  be  alto- 
gether bad  at  heart,  or  a  child — "  she  stopped. 
To  her  own  surprise,  the  contradictory  old  thing 
was  defending  the  Piper. 

"Oh,  prison!"  said  Anne  vaguely. 

"Yes;  didn't  you  know?  Was  not  that  why 
you  were  vexed — angry?" 

Anne  gave  an  odd  little  laugh.  "No,  Matty, 
dear.  To  be  candid,  it  was  not  that  at  all.  Some- 
how— it's  queer,  isn't  it? — I  never  thought  of 
that." 

"Then  why — ?"  began  Miss  Haldane,  per- 
plexed, vague. 

"Oh,  it's  a  complicated  situation,"  said  Anne 
dryly;  "but — well,  every  atom  of  pride  I  ever 
possessed  has  been  dragged  in  the  mud,  humbled, 
abased.  Now  you  have  the  truth ;  and  for  Heaven's 
sake  don't  ask  me  any  more!"  Again  the  hard 
look  crept  into  her  face.  She  got  up  and  moved 
to  the  window. 

Miss  Haldane  watched  her.  Had  there  been 
any  truth  in  Millicent's  words?  Had  she  seen 
more  of  this  man  than  Miss  Haldane  had  supposed? 


214  The  Peacock  Feather 

Clandestine  meetings,  secret  letters,  fluttered 
rapidly  before  Miss  Haldane's  mind.  Then 
she  looked  at  Anne  again.  It  was  impossible. 
Whatever  had  happened,  it  was  certain  that 
it  was  nothing  of  which  Anne  need  really  be 
ashamed. 

And  Anne,  silent  at  the  window,  had  bitterness 
in  her  heart;  she  felt  her  pride,  as  she  had  said, 
humbled,  dragged  in  the  dust.  This  man  to  whom 
she  had  written  had  amused  himself  at  her  ex- 
pense. As  one  person  he  had  received  her  intim- 
ate letters,  as  another  he  had  been  the  recipient 
of  gracious  favours  on  which  he  had  doubtless 
put  a  totally  wrong  construction.  Posing  as  two 
men,  yet  in  reality  one,  he  could  compare  the 
favours  she  had  accorded  both.  The  rose,  the 
green  sock — her  face  burnt  at  the  thought  of  them. 
The  one  man,  Robin  Adair,  smiling  at  her  gracious 
letters,  and  smiling  still  more  at  her  gracious 
treatment  of  the  vagabond  Piper. 

It  was  monstrous,  preposterous!  How  he  must 
have  laughed  in  his  sleeve  when  she  told  him  of 
her  inclination  to  confound  the  two  men.  Anger 
and  indignation  were  in  Anne's  heart  at  the 
thought,  yet  deeper  still  was  an  odd  little  ache, 


A  Wounded  Skylark  215 

and  the  fact  that  it  existed,  and  she  was  conscious 
of  it,  curiously  enough  increased  her  indignation 
against  Peter. 

The  door  opened  softly,  and  the  footman  en- 
tered with  a  letter  on  a  tray.  He  crossed  to  the 
window  where  Anne  was  standing.  As  she  saw 
the  letter  lying  there,  a  hot  flush  mounted  in  her 
face.  She  took  it,  holding  it  irresolutely  in  her 
hand.  When  the  door  had  closed  again,  she  broke 
the  seal. 

There  was  a  long  silence.  At  last  Miss  Haldane 
looked  round.  Anne's  face  was  quivering. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Miss  Haldane,  her  voice 
full  of  perplexed  anxiety. 

"Only,"  said  Anne,  with  a  half  sob,  "that  I 
have  torn  the  little  young  wings  from  a  skylark." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

CANDLES  AND  MASSES 


IF  at  the  beginning  of  the  last  chapter  Miss 
Haldane  was  perturbed,  worried,  perplexed,  so, 
rather  more  than  two  months  later,  Muriel  Lan- 
cing was  perturbed,  worried,  perplexed,  also;  and 
for  the  same  cause,  namely,  the  strange  demeanour 
of  the  Lady  Anne  Garland,  who  had  returned  to 
town  at  the  beginning  of  November. 

She  was  changed,  she  was  totally  different,  so 
sighed  Muriel,  reflective,  meditative.  Where  was 
her  former  charm?  her  former  sweet  kindliness? 
her  faith,  her  trust,  her  buoyancy — in  short,  her 
everything  that  went  to  make  up  the  Anne  Muriel 
knew  and  loved?  An  obsession  seemed  to  have 
come  upon  her.  She  was  cynical ,  hard,  the  speaker 
of  little  bitter  phrases,  deliberately  calculated  to 
wound  and  hurt.  She  was  not,  as  Muriel  reflected, 

216 


Candles  and  Masses  217 

Anne  at  all,  but  a  mask,  a  shell  of  a  woman,  in 
which  deep  down  the  real  Anne  was  imprisoned, 
buried. 

"If  only  she  would  speak,"  sighed  Muriel  to 
herself.  "If  only  the  mask  could  be  removed 
for  a  moment  the  real  Anne  would  be  liberated. 
Confession,  so  says  dear  old  Father  O'Sullivan, 
is  good  for  the  soul.  It  would  be  incalculably 
good  for  Anne's.  But  she  won't  make  one.  And 
short  of  asking  her  straight  out  to  do  so,  which 
would  inevitably  fix  the  mask  on  tighter  still,  I 
can  do  nothing." 

But,  all  the  same,  Muriel  went  off  to  the  Oratory 
and  set  up  a  candle  to  St.  Joseph,  telling  him 
pretty  lucidly  the  whole  state  of  affairs  and  re- 
questing him  to  do  something. 

Now  whether  it  was  the  intervention  of  St. 
Joseph,  or  whether  it  was  that  the  real  imprisoned 
Anne  could  bear  her  solitary  confinement  no 
longer,  must  be  a  matter  for  pure  conjecture;  but 
on  the  next  occasion  that  Muriel  visited  Anne's 
house  in  Cheyne  Walk  she  was  distinctly  conscious 
that  though  the  mask  was  on  there  was  a  tiny 
crack  in  it,  and  through  the  crack  the  real  Anne 
was  looking  with  a  kind  of  dumb  pleading. 


2i 8  The  Peacock  Feather 

In  a  twinkling  Muriel's  finger  was  towards  it, 
in,  of  course,  the  most  insidious  and  hidden  way 
imaginable.  It  is  useless  to  attempt  to  describe 
her  methods;  they  were  purely  feminine,  entirely 
delicate.  At  length  the  shell,  the  mask,  fell 
asunder,  and  the  real  Anne,  being  liberated, 
spoke.  It  was  an  enormous  relief  to  her,  and 
from  the  very  beginning  up  to  Millicent's  dis- 
closure she  confided  the  whole  story  to  Muriel, 
who  watched  her  with  her  greeny-grey  eyes  full 
of  sympathy. 

"Oh,  but,"  cried  Muriel  as  she  stopped,  "I 
quite  understand  your  anger.  Of  course,  it's 
very  difficult  to  put  into  exact  words  why  you 
are  angry,  the  whole  situation  is  so  extraordinarily 
complicated.  But,"  she  concluded,  "any  woman 
with  the  smallest  modicum  of  sense  must  see 
why.  And  the  fact  that  Millicent  was  the  per- 
son there  at  the  time  can't  have  made  things  a 
bit  nicer." 

' '  It  didn't, ' '  said  Anne  quietly.  ' '  But  I  haven' t 
finished  yet.  He  wrote  to  me." 

"Yes?"  queried  Muriel. 

"It — his  letter  swept  away  all  my  anger.  I — I 
understood." 


Candles  and  Masses  219 

"Of  course,"  Muriel  nodded,  "there  is  his 
point  of  view." 

" I  saw  it,"  said  Anne.  "I  realized — or  thought 
I  realized — the  utter  loneliness  that  made  him 
act  as  he  had  done.  I — I  wrote  to  him." 

"Yes?"  queried  Muriel  again,  and  very  gently. 

"I  said — oh,  I  said  a  good  deal,"  confessed 
Anne.  "And — and  he  has  never  replied.  Oh, 
don't  you  see  it's  that  that  hurts?  I  said  things 
I  would  never  have  said  if  I  hadn't  believed  he 
was  longing  for  me  to  say  them,  if  I  hadn't"— 
Anne's  face  was  crimson — "wanted  to  say  them. 
I  was  so  sure  I'd  hear  from  him  again.  And — 
and  there  was  only  a  cruel  silence.  I'd  give  any- 
thing never  to  have  written  that  letter."  Shamed, 
broken,  she  looked  piteously  at  Muriel.  Anne 
was  proud,  and  she  was  young.  She  did  not  yet 
know  that  there  is  no  shame  in  giving  love,  offering 
it  purely,  finely,  as  she  had  done.  Is  not  God 
Himself  daily  making  the  offering,  an  offering 
from  which  too  many  of  us  turn  away? 

"But,  darling  Anne,"  cried  Muriel,  "perhaps 
— surely  he  could  not  have  received  it." 

Anne  shook  her  head.  "It's  what  I'd  like  to 
believe,"  she  said  with  a  little  bitter  laugh,  "what 


22O  The  Peacock  Feather 

we'd  both  like  to  believe.  But  it's  no  good.  I 
sent  it  to  his  publishers,  the  same  address  as  that 
to  which  I'd  sent  the  others.  Oh,  no!  that  kind 
of  letters  don't  miscarry.  I  have  misunderstood 
all  through." 

"Darling!"  said  Muriel  softly. 

There  was  a  long  silence,  broken  only  by  an 
occasional  little  sputtering  of  the  coal  in  the  fire, 
and  the  rumble  of  wheels  and  clack  of  horses' 
hoofs  without.  And  in  the  silence  Muriel  was 
giving  very  deep  thanks  to  St.  Joseph  that  Anne — • 
her  beloved  Anne — was  once  more  restored  to  her. 
Also  she  was  cogitating  in  her  own  mind  still 
further  benefits  to  be  asked  of  him. 

Presently  Anne  broke  the  silence. 

"Muriel,  I'd  rather  you  should  forget — that 
we  should  never  speak  again — about  what  I've 
told  you  this  afternoon." 

Muriel  took  up  an  illustrated  paper  from  a  side 
table. 

"Hats,"  she  announced  sententiously,  "will  be 
worn  small  this  winter,  and  skirts  mercifully  not 
quite  so  tight.  Have  you  noticed  Mrs.  Clinton? 
She's  positively  indecent.  I  blush  scarlet  if  I'm 
with  a  man  when  I  meet  her." 


Candles  and  Masses  221 

Anne  laughed,  though  there  were  tears  in  her 
eyes. 

"Muriel,"  she  said,  "you're  the  silliest  and 
dearest  little  elf  in  Christendom." 

ii 

Muriel  made  more  than  one  further  journey 
to  the  Oratory  to  explain  matters  to  St.  Joseph, 
on  each  occasion  presenting  that  delightful  saint 
with  a  candle.  The  first  time — subsequent  to 
Anne's  confession — that  she  went  to  the  Oratory 
she  gave  him  two,  one  being  for  thanksgiving. 

Also  she  invited  Father  O' Sullivan  to  tea  on  an 
occasion  when  Tommy,  by  Muriel's  suggestion, 
had  taken  Anne  to  skate  at  Prince's. 

Father  O'Sullivan  was  a  short,  stoutish  man, 
with  grizzled  hair,  small  twinkling  eyes,  and  a 
mouth  that  had  the  kindliest  twist  of  a  smile 
imaginable.  To  know  Father  O'Sullivan  for  an 
hour  was  to  love  him.  To  know  him  for  longer 
was  to  love  him  better.  Muriel  had  known  him 
from  her  babyhood. 

This  afternoon,  having  invited  him  to  tea,  she 
plied  him  with  cakes  and  quince  sandwiches, 
which  latter  his  soul  adored,  and  talked  in  a  gay 


222  The  Peacock  Feather 

and  inconsequent  fashion  of  airy  nothings,  to 
which  Father  O'Sullivan  responded  after  the 
manner  of  Irishmen,  be  they  priests  or  laymen. 

But  on  the  conclusion  of  the  meal  she  dropped 
into  a  pensive  mood,  and  sat  with  her  elbow  on 
the  arm  of  her  chair,  and  her  pointed  chin  resting 
in  her  cupped  hand,  gazing  into  space  with  great 
dreamy  eyes. 

And  then  all  at  once  she  roused  herself  and 
looked  across  at  Father  O'Sullivan. 

"Father,"  she  said  seriously,  "I  want  you  to 
say  a  Mass  for  me." 

"You  do,  do  you?"  said  Father  O'Sullivan, 
stroking  his  chin.  "And  with  what  intention?" 

"Well,"  said  Muriel,  reflective,  "it's  not  quite 
easy  to  explain.  I  think  I'd  better  tell  you  the 
story."  And  she  launched  forth,  omitting  names 
at  the  moment,  though  at  a  future  date  she 
happened  inadvertently  to  mention  Peter's. 

"Well,  now,"  said  Father  O'Sullivan  as  she 
ended,  and  his  eyes  were  twinkling,  "is  it  just  a 
little  small  story  like  that  you'd  have  me  be  re- 
peating at  Mass,  for  I'm  thinking  it  will  take  just 
no  time  at  all." 

"Oh,    don't    laugh    at   me!"    begged    Muriel. 


Candles  and  Masses  223 

"Don't  you  see  how  difficult  it  is  to  put  into 
words  what  I  want!"  She  dropped  her  hands 
in  her  lap  and  gazed  at  him  tragically. 

"Well,  but  have  a  try,"  urged  Father  O'Sul- 
livan.  "Perhaps  I  can  be  helping  you  out." 

"First,  then,"  said  Muriel,  "I  want  her  to  be 
happy  again,  and  I  don't  see  how  that  can  be 
unless  she  hears  from  him,  and  even  that  alone 
would  be  no  good,  because  I'm  sure  to  be  really 
happy  she'd  have  to  marry  him,  and  you  see  he 
has  committed  forgery.  If  only  that  could  be 
untrue — but  it's  impossible,  and  I  don't  see  how 
anything  can  come  right,"  she  ended  despairingly. 

Father  O' Sullivan  rubbed  his  hair  up  the  wrong 
way.  "And  it's  a  Mass  with  the  intention  of 
things  coming  right  you  want  me  to  say,  when  all 
the  time  you're  feeling  sure  they  can't,"  he  re- 
marked severely.  "And  if  I'm  going  to  say  it 
that  way  myself,  what  kind  of  faith  do  you  think 
I'm  going  to  have  in  it?" 

Muriel  looked  at  him  contritely.  "But  don't 
you  see — "  she  began, 

"Oh,  I  see  fast  enough,"  he  responded.  "Let's 
get  at  what  you  want  the  other  way  round.  To 
begin  with,  you  want  the  young  man  never  to 


224  The  Peacock  Feather 

have  committed  the  forgery,  and  then  you  want 
to  run  through  the  whole  gamut  till  they  live 
happily  ever  after.  And  all  the  time  you're  wish- 
ing it,  and  wanting  me  to  pray  for  it,  you're 
telling  yourself  it  can't  be.  Isn't  that  so?"  His 
twinkling  old  eyes  belied  the  half-severity  of  his 
words. 

"Oh,  but,"  said  Muriel,'  "it's— it's  such  a  lot 
to  ask." 

Father  O'Sullivan  leaned  forward  and  tapped 
the  forefinger  of  his  right  hand  in  the  palm  of 
his  left. 

"Faith,  my  child,  is  not  asking  God  for  bushels 
and  setting  out  a  pint  measure  to  catch  them 
in.  It's  a  good  old  saying,  but  not  my  own, 
more's  the  pity  of  it.  Now,  do  you  want  me  to 
say  this  Mass  for  you  with  the  intention  we've 
arranged?" 

"Yes,"  said  Muriel  firmly. 

"And  you'll  come  tc  it,  and  believe  that  it  will 
be  answered,  whether  in  your  way  or  God's  you 
leave  to  Him?"  he  asked  gravely. 

"Yes,"  said  Muriel  again. 

Father  O'Sullivan  nodded  his  head  approvingly. 
''To-morrow  morning  at  eight  o'clock  I'll  be 


Candles  and  Masses  225 

saying  it  then,"  he  said,  "and  you'll  be  praying 
too."  He  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

"Of  course,"  ventured  Muriel,  "it's  rather  a 
complicated  thing  to  put  into  words." 

Father  O' Sullivan  smiled,  a  merry,  twinkling 
humorous  old  smile.  "Faith,  I'll  be  getting  it 
into  some  kind  of  shape,"  he  promised.  "And  if 
we  could  hear  all  the  prayers  sent  up  to  heaven 
I'm  thinking  we'd  find  many  a  muddled  phrase 
down  here  straightened  out  by  the  holy  saints  as 
they  carry  them  up  to  God's  Throne.  And  no 
matter  what  the  muddles  are,  the  answer's  clear 
enough  when  it  comes." 

And  then  the  door  opened  and  Anne,  Tommy, 
and  General  Garden  walked  in. 

Muriel  gave  a  little  gasp.  "I  thought  you 
were  having  tea  at  Prince's,"  she  said. 

And  Father  O' Sullivan,  as  he  watched  her  face 
with  wicked  pleasure,  realized — and  it  did  not 
take  a  vast  amount  of  sagacity  to  do  so — that  one 
at  least  of  the  three  was  concerned  with  the  story 
she  had  just  confided  to  his  ears.  And  as  it  ob- 
viously was  not  Tommy,  and  he  concluded  he 
might  rule  out  the  white-haired  military-looking 

man,  it  left  only  the  tall,  graceful  woman  who 
15 


226  The  Peacock  Feather 

crossed  to  a  chair  by  Muriel  and  began  pulling 
off  her  gloves. 

"We  got  bored,"  said  Tommy;  "at  least  Anne 
did,  and  we  decided  to  come  home  to  tea.  And 
we  met  General  Garden  on  the  doorstep,  and 
here  we  all  are.  And  if  you're  too  flustered 
for  some  reason  to  introduce  everybody  nicely, 
I  will." 

"Don't  be  silly,  Tommy,"  said  Muriel,  laugh- 
ing and  recovering  her  equanimity.  "Ring  the 
bell,  and  we'll  have  fresh  tea  made." 

"No  need,"  said  Tommy.  "I  saw  Morris  in 
the  hall  and  told  him."  And  he  sat  down  by 
Father  O' Sullivan.  General  Garden  took  a  chair 
near  Anne. 

"I  was  sorry  not  to  find  you  at  home  when  I 
called  last  Thursday,"  he  said.  "Your  servant 
told  me  you  were  at  home  on  Tuesdays." 

"Yes,"  said  Anne.  She  hesitated,  half  doubt- 
ful. Then  she  added:  "But  perhaps  you'll  come 
another  afternoon?  At-home  days  are  not  very 
satisfactory.  Shall  we  say  Wednesday?" 

"I  shall  be  delighted,"  returned  General  Garden. 
"We  had,  if  I  remember  rightly,  a  long  argument 
the  last  time  we  met,  about  a  book.  Let  me  see. 


Candles  and  Masses  227 

what  was  the  author's  name?"  He  wrinkled  his 
brows,  reflective,  thoughtful. 

Anne  turned  to  put  her  gloves  on  the  table 
beside  her.  "Robin  Adair,  wasn't  it?"  she  asked 
quietly. 

"Ah,  yes,  of  course!"  replied  the  old  hypo- 
crite. 

Muriel  glanced  at  Anne.  "I  wish,"  she  re- 
flected with  admiration,  "that  I  could  act  as  well. 
I  nearly  gave  myself  away  just  now,  when  they 
all  descended  on  me  like  an  avalanche.  And  I'd 
bet  my  bottom  dollar  Father  0' Sullivan  guessed 
something."  Which  bet,  if  there  had  been  any 
one  to  take  her  on,  Muriel  would  certainly  have 
won. 

Anne,  as  she  drove  towards  Chelsea  half  an 
hour  later,  wondered  vaguely  why  she  had  asked 
General  Garden  to  tea  with  her.  Finally  she 
decided  that  it  was  for  the  obvious  reason  that 
he  wanted  to  come,  and  she  would  have  been  rude 
if  she  had  not  done  so. 

And  Father  O'Sullivan,  as  he  walked  home, 
ruminated  on  the  tangled  story  Muriel  had  told 
him.  It  was  only  one  of  the  many  tangles  in 
the  world,  and  he  knew  it,  but  it  had  been  brought 


228  The  Peacock  Feather 

directly  to  his  notice,  and  he  had  a  very  simple 
and  perfect  faith  that  the  good  God  would  un- 
ravel the  knots  in  His  own  way  and  at  His  own 
time. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

DUM  SPIRO,  SPERO 

You  know  how  there  are  times  in  our  lives  when 
the  days  hang  heavily,  each  moment  dragging  on 
leaden  feet,  weighted  all  the  more  grievously 
because  we  are  ready  to  protest  to  our  fellowmen, 
to  ourselves  perhaps,  that  the  days  are  not  grey, 
but  each  one  as  full  of  light  as  we  would  have  it 
be.  And  if  you  do  not  know  you  are  lucky.  Or 
are  you  lucky?  Are  not  the  heavy  clouds,  which 
temporarily  hide  the  golden  sunshine,  better  than 
a  dull  monochrome  of  a  life,  in  which  neither  cloud 
nor  sunshine  is  existent?  For  is  it  not  by  the 
very  brightness  of  the  sun  which  has  been,  that 
we  recognize  the  clouds  which  now  obscure  it? 
It  is  when  the  sun  has  never  shone  in  its  fullest 
splendour  for  us  that  we  do  not  recognize  the 
existence  of  the  clouds,  for  to  say  that  any  life  is 
passed  in  one  unbroken  dream  of  golden  glory  is  to 
make  a  statement  which  one  will  dare  to  denounce 
as  untrue.  If  there  be  the  gold  of  joy,  so  there 

229 


230  The  Peacock  Feather 

will  come  the  clouds  of  sorrow,  and  a  life  without 
clouds  is  of  necessity  one  without  sun,  a  mono- 
chrome of  a  life,  peaceful  perhaps,  but  lacking  in 
intensity. 

The  days  passed  slowly  for  Anne.  They  no 
longer  went  by  with  the  gay  carelessness  of  a  year, 
six  months,  nay,  only  three  months  ago.  Take 
an  interest  out  of  your  life,  however  chary  you 
may  have  been  of  admitting  the  existence  of  that 
interest  to  your  secret  heart,  and  then  fill  your 
days  with  gaiety,  friends,  books,  anything  and 
everything  but  the  one  thing  you  want,  and  you 
will  find  it  a  method  of  subtraction  and  addition 
which  is  apt  to  result  in  a  distinctly  unsatisfactory 
sum  total. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  however,  that  Anne 
wore  her  heart  upon  her  sleeve  for  society  daws 
to  peck  at.  She  hid  it  and  its  little  ache  deep 
under  a  charming  courtliness  which  was,  if  any- 
thing, more  charming  than  usual.  And  if  she 
smiled  a  little  more  frequently,  if  a  bon  mot  came 
more  readily  to  her  lips,  after  all  they  were  but 
attempts  to  bury  the  heartache  a  bit  deeper,  and 
it  was  at  least  the  real  Anne  who  once  more  walked 
the  earth. 


Dum  Spiro,  Spero  231 

She  saw  Millicent  occasionally,  but  only  occa- 
sionally. There  was  now  between  them  a  civil 
exchange  of  courtesies ;  an  assumption,  but  merely 
an  assumption,  of  the  old  friendly  footing.  On 
a  certain  afternoon  in  the  White  House  Millicent 
had  attempted  to  give  a  version  of  a  particular 
story  to  Anne.  To  which  Anne  had  responded 
that  she  already  knew  it.  Millicent,  however, 
had  attempted  to  explain,  and  in  explaining  had 
told  Anne  one  or  two  things  Anne  had  not  before 
known,  which  things  had  caused  those  afore- 
mentioned cracks  in  Millicent  to  gape  with  such 
ominous  wideness  that  Millicent  herself  suddenly 
perceived  them,  and,  worse  still,  saw  that  Anne 
perceived  them.  Anne  had  quietly  announced 
that  she  preferred  not  to  talk  of  the  matter  fur- 
ther: the  part  of  it  that  concerned  Millicent  was 
her  own  affair,  the  part  of  it  that  concerned  herself 
was  hers.  And  so  it  had  concluded,  outwardly 
at  all  events.  But  it  did  not  require  a  vast  amount 
of  acumen  to  perceive  that  their  former  friendly 
relationship  was  of  necessity  a  trifle  strained. 

It  is  not  to  be  inferred  from  this,  however,  that 
Anne  and  Millicent  were  anywhere  near  warfare 
with  each  other.  Anne  was  far  too  much  grande 


232  The  Peacock  Feather 

dame  for  such  a  proceeding.  Also  her  sentiments 
towards  Millicent  were  now  those  of  pure  indif- 
ference. Millicent  had  never  counted  a  great 
deal  in  her  life,  she  now  merely  counted  less.  Of 
Millicent  one  cannot  be  so  sure.  She  had  seen 
Anne's  face  on  that  historic  afternoon;  she  had 
seen  Peter's  face.  She  had  therefrom  drawn  her 
own  conclusions — conclusions  to  which  Anne's 
subsequent  refusal  to  discuss  the  matter  had 
given  further  weight. 

Millicent  would  have  liked  to  think  of  Peter  as 
pining  in  quiet  grief  for  her,  leading  a  kind  of 
piano  life  of  minor  passages  in  which  she  stood  for 
the  keynote.  She  had — to  be  candid — pictured 
Peter  in  her  mind  as  a  prematurely  grey-haired 
man,  slightly  bowed  at  the  shoulders  (from  re- 
morse), gazing  fervently  at  a  photograph  of  a 
Madonna-like  woman  with  a  child  in  her  arms 
(Millicent's  latest  by  Lafayette),  sorrowfully 
considering  the  fact  that  the  child  was  not  his, 
and  announcing  to  Heaven  that  the  thought  of 
her  should  guide  him  at  last  to  its  Gates.  It  must 
be  allowed  that  it  was  a  distinct  jar  to  find  him 
not  at  all  grey-haired,  not  at  all  bowed  at  the 
shoulders,  but  jaunty,  debonair,  carrying  a  ridi- 


Dum  Spiro,  Spero  233 

culous  hat  with  a  peacock  feather  in  his  hand,  and 
talking  intimately  to  one  of  her  own  friends,  one, 
too,  who  had  kept  her  acquaintanceship  with  him 
a  dead  secret.  Millicent's  feelings  towards  both 
him  and  Anne  verged  on  something  like  hatred, 
though  this  primeval  instinct  was  so  hidden  be- 
neath a  mask  of  culture  that  no  one,  Anne  least 
of  all,  perceived  it. 

Of  General  Garden  Anne  now  saw  a  good  deal. 
Having  come  once  to  her  house  he  came  again, 
and  came  frequently.  And  every  time,  by  some 
subtle  method  of  his  own  device,  he  contrived  to 
mention  a  certain  green-covered  book,  and  also 
to  speak  of  the  author.  And,  queerly  enough, 
Anne  responded.  Perhaps  by  some  feminine 
intuition  she  guessed  General  Garden's  secret, 
namely,  that  he  had  a  pretty  shrewd  inkling  of 
the  identity  of  the  author,  and  perhaps  under- 
neath the  courtly  worldly  demeanour  of  the  old 
man  she  saw  the  heart  which  longed  for  some  word, 
some  sign,  from  him.  And  perhaps  knowing  this, 
seeing  this,  the  heart  of  the  now  liberated  Anne 
went  out  to  the  old  General,  having  in  a  way  a 
common  cause  of  unhappiness.  And  so  the  two 
smiled  and  chatted,  and  skimmed  the  surface  of 


234  The  Peacock  Feather 

their  sorrow,  rinding  in  so  doing  a  curious  consola- 
tion, so  queer  and  unaccountable  is  human  nature. 

And  then  one  day,  a  few  weeks  after  her  con- 
versation with  Muriel,  she  became  conscious  of  a 
tiny  hope  in  her  heart.  She  could  no  more  say 
at  which  precise  moment  it  had  first  been  born 
than  one  can  say  at  which  precise  moment  the 
tiny  green  leaves  of  a  spring  flower  first  push  above 
the  brown  earth.  For  weeks  there  is  nothing  to 
be  seen,  and  then  one  morning  we  come  down  to 
our  garden  and  the  tiny  shoot  is  there  in  the 
sunshine,  smiling  shyly  at  us. 

And  so  one  morning,  all  unsuspected  in  its 
hidden  growth,  a  tiny  green  shoot  of  hope  sprang 
up  in  Anne's  heart,  a  hope  that  after  all  her  pride 
had  not  been  abased  as  she  had  feared,  but  that 
somewhere,  somehow,  love  was  lifting  it  from  the 
earth.  It  is  not  easy  to  put  into  exact  words 
precisely  what  she  hoped,  but  assuredly  trust  had 
been  renewed.  And  with  an  old  priest  praying 
at  an  altar,  and  a  woman  kneeling  to  St.  Joseph, 
and  somewhere,  far  away,  a  man's  heart  worship- 
ping and  adoring,  it  is  hardly  surprising  that  it 
was  so. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

DEMOCRITUS 

AND  now  if  this  history  be  inclined  to  jump  from 
one  place  to  another  in  a  somewhat  inconsequent 
fashion,  perhaps  it  will  be  forgiven,  for  with  its 
hero  wandering  away  by  himself  and  the  rest  of 
the  characters  more  or  less  congregated  together, 
it  takes  some  mental  skipping  to  record  their 
story. 

Yet  Peter  was  now  not  entirely  lonely.  He  had 
picked  up  a  chum,  a  pal,  in  the  shape  of  a  small 
and  extremely  mongrel  puppy  of  a  breed  unknown, 
but  it  is  to  be  supposed  that  wire-haired  terrier 
predominated.  And  here  is  the  manner  of  their 
first  meeting. 

When  Peter  left  the  cottage  in  the  early  morning 
he  walked  first  to  the  market- town,  where  he 
posted  two  letters — one  to  the  Lady  Anne  Gar- 
land and  one  to  his  publishers,  telling  them  that 
at  present  he  had  no  settled  address,  but  that  if 

235 


236  The  Peacock  Feather 

he  wished  to  correspond  with  them  later  he  would 
let  them  know.  The  consequence  of  this  being 
that  when  a  certain  blue  letter,  addressed  to  him, 
arrived  at  their  office  it  remained  there,  while 
they  waited  with  what  patience  they  might  for 
word  or  sign  from  Peter.  If  he  were  a  bit  of  a 
genius,  and  they  were  inclined  to  consider  him 
so,  his  methods  were  also  somewhat  erratic. 
.  Leaving  the  town,  he  turned  his  steps  north- 
ward, and  for  no  particular  reason  beyond  the 
fact  that  he  liked  the  look  of  the  road.  But  per- 
haps it  -was  really  a  certain  unseen  guidance 
which  led  his  steps  in  that  direction  and  made  him 
of  benefit  to  a  small  bundle  of  life  embodied  in  a 
miserable  little  roll  of  dirty  white  hair,  a  stump 
of  a  baby  tail,  two  short  ears,  four  lanky  little 
legs,  a  wet  black  nose,  and  a  pair  of  really  beautiful 
brown  eyes.  Often  we  see  these  beautiful  eyes 
in  an  otherwise  entirely  ugly  face.  Perhaps  it  is 
not  surprising,  for  after  all  they  are  the  windows 
of  the  soul,  and  even  a  little  doggy  soul  may  be 
beautiful.  But  to  proceed. 

Peter  walked  along  a  dusty  high-road  till  about 
noonday.  It  was  an  August  day,  as  may  be 
remembered,  and  breathless  with  the  quiet  heat 


Democritus  237 

of  that  month  when  it  happens  to  be  really  hot. 
Peter  had  not  noticed  the  heat  at  first;  external 
matters  were  at  the  moment  outside  his  considera- 
tion. He  had  been  tramping  doggedly,  mentally 
weary,  the  sun  of  the  last  few  weeks  blotted  out, 
his  horizon  now  veiled  in  grey  clouds  of  dreariness. 

And  then  at  last  his  body  began  to  protest. 
"If  you  will  indulge  in  lovesick  thoughts,"  it 
cried,  "if  your  soul  intends  to  give  itself  up  to 
heartache  and  mental  torment,  at  all  events 
don't  drag  me  into  it.  And  it's  very  sure  that 
if  you  will  treat  me  with  a  bit  more  consideration 
you  will  be  befriending  your  soul  likewise."  And 
Peter,  seeing  the  force  of  the  argument,  laughed. 

It  was  against  all  philosophy  except  that  of  the 
monks  of  old  time  to  punish  your  body  because 
your  soul  was  sick.  Body  and  soul  were — at  all 
events  in  his  case,  he  argued — too  closely  allied. 
Perhaps  those  old  monks  who  had  found  a  key 
to  spiritual  things — a  key  on  which  Peter  did  not 
pretend  to  have  laid  a  hand — might  have  had  such 
a  way  of  separating  the  two  that  the  one  did  not 
suffer  for  the  infirmities  of  the  other.  But  Peter 
was  one  of  us  ordinary  mortals  to  whom  prayer 
and  such-like  on  an  empty  stomach — or  an  over- 


238  The  Peacock  Feather 

full  one  for  that  matter — would  be  a  thing  impos- 
sible. For  his  soul  to  be  at  ease  his  body  must 
be  comfortable,  and  most  assuredly  he  was  at  the 
present  moment  increasing  the  discomfort  of  his 
soul  by  unduly  fatiguing  his  body.  It  was  an 
illogical  proceeding,  as  he  suddenly  perceived. 

A  wood  lay  to  the  right  of  the  road — a  place  of 
cool  shadows  and  small  dancing  spots  of  gold,  a 
silent  place,  still  as  the  peace  of  some  old  cathedral. 

Peter  turned  into  it.  He  walked  a  little  way 
across  the  green  moss,  till  the  leafy  barrier  of 
branches  shut  the  high-road  from  his  sight,  and 
then  sat  down,  his  back  against  the  purple  and 
silver  flecked  trunk  of  a  beech-tree.  He  un- 
strapped his  wallet  and  laid  it  on  the  ground 
beside  him.  Then  suddenly  his  ear  caught  a 
sound,  a  faint  yelping  cry  of  pain.  It  was  as  if 
some  creature  had  for  hours  been  imploring  aid 
which  did  not  come,  as  if  it  had  sunk  into  a  de- 
spairing silence,  and  then  some  tiny  sound,  some 
movement,  had  again  awakened  hope  sufficient 
to  make  one  last  appeal. 

Peter  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"Now  which  way  was  it?"  he  queried.  "From 
over  there,  if  I'm  not  mistaken."  And  he  set  off 


Democritus  239 

farther  into  the  wood.  "  It's  an  animal  in  a  trap," 
he  said,  "a  beastly  trap.  Curse  the  things!" 

Many  a  time  in  his  wanderings  Peter  had  put 
a  dumb  creature  out  of  its  misery.  And  if  you 
have  ever  heard  a  hare  cry,  and  seen  its  soft  eyes 
gazing  at  you  till  you'd  vow  it  was  an  imprisoned 
human  soul  looking  through  its  windows,  you'd 
know  the  fury  of  rage  against  some  of  mankind 
that  had  possessed  Peter  more  than  once,  and 
which  possessed  him  now.  He  peered  right  and 
left  among  the  undergrowth,  his  eyes  and  ears 
alert,  yet  seeing  nothing,  hearing  nothing. 

He  stopped  and  whistled  softly. 

"Where  are  you,  you  poor  little  atom  of  life?" 
he  cried. 

And  then,  not  a  yard  ahead  of  him,  from  a 
great  bramble  clump,  came  the  tiniest,  most  piti- 
ful cry,  but  with  a  little  note  of  hope  in  it. 

"Oh!"  cried  Peter,  and  the  next  instant  he  was 
on  his  knees,  the  steel  jaws  were  pulled  asunder, 
and  a  baby  mongrel  of  a  puppy  was  dragging  itself 
feebly  towards  him,  trying  to  lick  his  hand.  "  Oh, 
you  poor  little  beggar!"  said  Peter,  as  he  wrenched 
the  trap  from  the  ground  and  flung  it  into  the 
middle  of  the  bramble-bush.  Then  he  lifted  the 


240  The  Peacock  Feather 

small  bundle  of  rough,  dirty  white  hair  tenderly 
and  carried  it  back  to  the  beech-tree. 

There  he  sat  himself  down  and  began  to  ex- 
amine the  wounded  leg;  it  was  terribly  torn  but 
mercifully  not  broken.  Peter  washed  the  wound 
with  some  water  from  his  flask,  and  bound  the 
leg  with  some  strips  he  tore  from  his  handker- 
chief, the  small  creature  ecstatically  licking  his 
hand  the  while. 

"You  know,"  remonstrated  Peter,  "a  thing  of 
your  size  should  not  be  wandering  about  alone. 
It's  not  correct.  You  might  have  known  you'd 
get  into  difficulties." 

The  puppy  paused  in  its  licking  to  look  into 
his  face  with  brown  speaking  eyes.  They  might 
have  told  Peter  a  good  deal — a  sad  little  story  of 
being  hunted,  hounded  from  place  to  place  on 
account  of  his  ugly  little  body,  of  a  last  frantic, 
terrified  rush  from  a  distant  village,  of  presently 
trotting  along  a  dusty  road,  of  a  turning  into  a 
wood  which  smelled  pleasantly  of  rabbits  and  other 
things  dear  to  a  doggy  nose,  and  of  a  final  excru- 
ciating imprisonment,  which  had  lasted  through 
Heaven  knows  how  long  of  torment,  till  a  big 
human  being  in  the  shape  of  Peter  had  come  to  his 


Democritus  241 

rescue.  All  this  those  eyes  might  have  said.  At 
all  events,  Peter  read  a  bit  of  the  story. 

"I  suppose,  you  poor  atom,"  he  said  whimsi- 
cally, "that  no  one  wanted  you,  so  you  set  out  to 
forage  on  your  own  account.  Well,  we're  both  in 
the  same  boat.  Shall  we  pull  it  together?" 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  the  puppy  under- 
stood the  precise  words,  but  it  unquestionably 
understood  the  tone,  and  it  again  fell  to  licking 
Peter's  hand. 

Peter  ferreted  in  his  wallet.  He  found  bread 
and  meat,  and  together  they  shared  a  meal. 
Water  Peter  poured  into  his  palm,  and  the  small 
creature  lapped  greedily.  Finally  it  curled  itself 
up  beside  him,  and,  despite  a  sore  and  wounded 
leg,  dropped  into  a  blissful  and  contented  slumber. 
After  a  moment  or  so  Peter  followed  its  example. 
He  had  not,  it  will  be  guessed,  slept  the  previous 
night,  and  he  had  been  tramping  since  daybreak. 
So  now  here  were  two  wayfarers  forgetting  their 
woes  in  slumber,  though  the  puppy,  it  may  be 
safely  averred,  was  confident  that  his  woes  were  over. 

The  sun  was  slanting  low  through  the  wood 
when  Peter  awakened.  He  opened  his  eyes  and 

16 


242  The  Peacock  Feather 

looked  around  without  moving.    The  puppy- 
the  laziness  of  it! — had  not  stirred.     But,  then, 
who  knows  how  many  hours  of  puppy  sleepiness 
it  had  not  to  make  up. 

"Ouf!"  said  Peter,  stretching  himself  hugely. 

The  puppy  woke,  started,  cringed,  felt  the 
wound  in  its  leg,  and  yelped. 

Peter  picked  it  up  with  firm  hands.  "Now 
look  here,"  he  said  solemnly,  "we  don't  want  any 
more  fear.  You've  got  to  forget  that.  Do  you 
understand?  We're  going  to  be  comrades,  pals, 
you  and  I ;  and  we're  both  of  us  going  to  keep  up 
brave  hearts  and  cheer  each  other.  You've  got 
a  wound  in  your  leg,  and  I've  got  one  in  the  region 
which  I  suppose  is  called  the  heart.  You — you 
puppy  thing!  have  the  advantage  over  me,  be- 
cause with  a  bit  of  luck  yours  will  mend  in  a  few 
days.  But  anyhow,  neither  of  us  is  going  to 
whine.  You're  going  to  bark  cheerfully  and  wag 
your  tail,  and  I'm  going  to  write — presently,  and 
grin  as  well  as  I  know  how.  The  world  would 
be  quite  a  decent  place  if  people  would  let  it  be 
so,  and  we're  not  going  to  add  dulness  to  its  poor 
old  shoulders.  It's  borne  quite  enough  in  its 
time.  Have  you  understood  ? ' ' 


Democritus  243 

A  small  red  tongue  trying  to  reach  Peter's  face 
testified  to  entire  comprehension. 

"Very  well,  then.  Now  come  along,  and  as  I 
presume  you'd  prefer  not  to  walk  on  three  legs 
I'll  carry  you.  You're  not  much  of  a  size,  and 
only  skin  and  bone  at  that." 

Peter  picked  up  his  wallet  and  hitched  his  bundle 
to  his  back,  which  bundle  was  heavier  than  when 
we  first  met  him.  It  now  contained,  further,  a 
packet  of  manuscript,  a  writing- tablet,  and — the 
foolishness  of  the  vagabond! — a  dress  suit.  The 
bundle  adjusted  to  exactly  that  position  which 
made  its  weight  of  the  least  concern,  he  tucked 
the  small  animal  under  his  arm,  with  careful  con- 
sideration for  its  wounded  leg,  and  set  off  to  the 
edge  of  the  wood  and  once  more  down  the  dusty 
road.  With  _  some  shrewdness,  at  the  first  two 
villages  he  passed,  he  hid  the  puppy  under 
his  coat  with  a  whispered  injunction  to  lie 
still,  an  injunction  which  was  scrupulously 
observed.  Only  by  the  tiniest  quivering  of 
the  body  and  the  quick  beat  of  the  heart 
against  Peter's  arm  was  the  smallest  sign  of 
movement  and  life  betrayed.  Villages,  you  per- 
ceive, were  anathema  to  him,  holding  terror, 


244  The  Peacock  Feather 

pain,  and  everything  that  was  most  unholy  and 
unpleasant. 

They  slept  in  a  barn  that  night.  Before  he 
slept  Peter  took  out  and  examined  his  manuscript 
by  the  light  of  a  candle.  Then  his  face  quivered. 

"Not  to-night,"  he  said.  "I  can't.  I  will 
to-morrow." 

He  promised  it  like  a  child  who  cries  "Honest 
Injun!"  at  the  end  of  its  speech. 

"What  would  you  do,"  asked  Peter,  addressing 
himself  to  the  puppy,  "if  you  felt  uncommonly 
miserable  and  had  made  a  promise  to  yourself 
and  a  puppy  to  be  cheerful?" 

The  puppy  looked  at  him,  head  on  one  side. 
Then  it  yawned,  a  large  wide  yawn  that  began 
and  ended  in  something  remarkably  like  a  grin. 
Finally  it  crept  to  Peter  and  curled  down  beside 
him  in  slumber. 

"Grin  and  bear  it  and  sleep,  I  suppose,"  said 
Peter.  "Puppy,  you're  a  philosopher,  and  I 
think  your  name  is  Democritus." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

AT  A  FAIR 

AND  so  these  two  entered  into  partnership — a 
partnership  that,  on  the  side  of  Democritus,  was 
marked  by  an  entire  adoration,  the  full  and  over- 
whelming love  and  trust  of  a  dog's  soul,  and  on 
Peter's  by  affection  and  a  real  sense  of  comfort 
in  the  small  animal's  companionship. 

The  days  that  passed  were  days  of  unbroken 
sunshine;  England  was  revelling,  as  she  rarely 
does,  in  long-continued  sun  and  warmth.  Peter 
spent  the  mornings  and  a  good  part  of  the  after- 
noon in  the  shade  of  some  coppice  or  in  the  shadow 
of  some  old  quarry  or  haystack,  engrossed  in  his 
writing,  while  Democritus  at  first  lay  curled  beside 
him,  and  later,  as  the  ugly  wound  healed,  set  off 
on  rabbiting  expeditions  of  his  own,  to  return  at 
noon  and  share  Peter's  midday  meal. 

After  having  worked  for  some  weeks  under  a 
roof,  Peter  at  first  did  not  find  it  so  easy  to  write 

245 


246  The  Peacock  Feather 

in  the  open.  There  were  countless  things  to  prove 
of  distraction — the  sunlight  spots  that  danced  on 
the  ground  beside  him,  the  glint  of  a  dragon-fly's 
wing,  the  butterflies  that  flitted  in  the  sunshine, 
the  bleating  of  sheep,  the  lowing  of  cows,  the  cry 
of  the  curlew,  the  plaintive  pipe  of  the  plover,  all 
served  to  carry  his  thoughts  into  dreamy  realms  of 
fancy  away  from  the  work  of  the  moment. 

And  in  these  realms  there  were  three  or  four 
pictures  that  kept  recurring  to  his  mind.  There 
was  a  woman  sitting  in  the  sunshine  on  a  terrace, 
her  hair  warm  and  lustrous  in  the  light.  Peter 
would  see  again  the  indescribable  note  of  race 
and  breeding  that  predominated  in  her;  see  her 
eyes  grey  and  shining ;  the  warm  ivory  of  her  skin ; 
her  white  hands  long-fingered  and  slender,  rose- 
tipped,  with  almond-shaped  nails;  the  lines  of  her 
graceful  figure;  the  whole  fragrance,  the  warm 
vitality  of  her;  and  hear  her  low,  round  voice. 
There  was  a  moonlight  picture,  elusive,  full  of 
a  rare  charm.  There  was  a  picture  half-hidden 
in  driving  rain,  and  then  a  woman  by  his 
hearth,  lifting  a  glass  of  red  wine  to  her  lips.  And, 
lastly,  a  picture  of  a  woman,  looking  at  him, 
white,  silent,  her  eyes  holding  depths  of  contempt. 


At  a  Fair  247 

And  here  Peter  would  catch  his  underlip  with 
his  teeth  and  turn  again  fiercely  to  his  writing. 
It  was  gay  writing,  witty  writing.  His  Wanderer 
wore  his  cap  and  bells  finely,  jesting  right  royally, 
and  it  would  have  needed  a  penetrating  insight 
to  recognize  the  sigh  beneath  the  smile. 

The  world,  as  Peter  had  told  Democritus,  has 
borne  much  in  her  time.  Through  countless 
ages  she  has  seen  the  sin,  the  sorrow,  the  pain  of 
mankind;  but  she  knows,  if  they  could  but  realize 
it,  that  all  this  is  as  transitory  as  the  barren  days 
of  winter  that  cover  her,  and  that  life  and  hope 
are  never  dead,  but  only  sleeping,  and  will  awake 
again  with  the  spring.  She  tells  us  this  times  out 
of  number.  Every  year  she  silently  speaks  her 
allegory,  but  it  falls  for  the  most  part  on  unheed- 
ing ears.  In  the  barren  winter  of  our  lives  it  is 
not  easy  to  believe  that  spring  will  once  more  wake 
for  us,  that  however  long  and  dreary  the  grey 
months,  somewhere  and  at  some  time  the  spring 
will  dawn.  Peter  was  facing  his  winter  bravely, 
but  he  could  not  yet  believe  that  one  day  the  sun 
would  shine  again  for  him,  the  birds  sing,  the 
flowers  bloom.  For  all  his  outward  gaiety,  the 
present  physical  warmth  and  sunshine  only  served 


248  The  Peacock  Feather 

to  emphasize  his  mental  winter.  But  Nature 
knew  and  did  her  best  to  cheer  him,  and  to  tell 
him  that  our  interior  spring  and  summer,  though 
their  advent  is  sure,  do  not  always  accord  with 
hers. 

One  day,  somewhere  about  the  middle  of  Sep- 
tember, Peter  reached  a  small  town.  He  was 
progressing  slowly  northward,  but  as  he  spent  a 
considerable  part  of  his  time  in  writing  his  progress 
was  by  no  means  hurried. 

In  this  town  a  fair  was  in  full  swing,  and  Peter 
was  reminded  of  a  letter  he  had  once  received, 
which  talked  of  another  fair — one  in  the  South 
of  England. 

It  was  a  gay  scene  enough,  and  Peter,  with 
Democritus,  at  his  heels,  paused  a  while  to  watch 
it.  There  were  crowds  of  people  in  holiday  attire; 
there  were  endless  couples — girl  and  swain.  There 
were  coco-nut  shies;  there  were  merry-go-rounds 
of  horses  and  boat-cars,  which  revolved  to  some 
excruciating  music  (so-called),  set  in  motion  by 
the  machinery  which  worked  the  highly  coloured 
wooden  horses  and  cars.  There  were  stalls 
covered  with  miscellaneous  articles  of  marvellous, 


At  a  Fair  249 

manufacture — glass  vases  with  undulated  edges, 
beginning  white  at  the  base  and  slowly  increasing 
in  colour  from  pale  pink  to  a  violent  ruby;  china 
mugs  and  cups  covered  with  floreate  designs  or 
flags,  between  two  of  which  King  George  and 
Queen  Mary  stared  forth  with  painted  pained 
surprise.  There  were  gilt  clocks,  boxes  of  sweets, 
tin  butter-dishes  politely  called  silver,  and  all  the 
rest  of  the  articles  which  usually  adorn  the  stalls 
at  a  fair. 

A  number  of  these  articles  were  displayed  on  a 
circular  table  covered  with  red  twill  and  sur- 
rounded by  a  barricade,  beside  which  stood  a  man 
with  a  number  of  small  hoops  in  his  hand.  In  a 
loud  voice  he  was  urging  the  onlookers  to  try  their 
luck.  The  hoops,  it  appeared,  were  to  be  loaned 
to  them  at  the  rate  of  three  a  penny;  they  were 
then  to  be  flung  quoit-like  over  any  article  on  the 
table.  Provided  they  fell  surrounding  the  article 
without  touching  it,  it  became  the  property  of  the 
thrower.  If  you  had  ill-luck  you  had  disbursed 
your  money  with  no  result;  moderate  luck  would 
bring  you  a  packet  of  sweets  or  a  china  dog  or  cat, 
and  by  surprising  good  luck  you  might  become 
the  possessor  of  a  certain  largish  gilt  clock  or  a 


250  The  Peacock  Feather 

ruby  vase,  and  all  for  a  sum  which  might  be  the 
fraction  of  a  penny.  It  sounded  seductive,  and 
the  throwers  of  the  hoops  were  fairly  numerous, 
though  the  acquirers  of  prizes  were  few.  The 
wooden  hoop  had  an  unpleasant  way  of  falling 
against  the  article  required  and  propping  itself 
up  by  it  as  though  too  tired  for  further  exertion. 
But  the  throwers,  with  the  hearts  of  born  gamblers, 
continued  to  throw  and  hope  for  better  things, 
till  diminishing  coppers  or  entirely  empty  pockets 
sent  them  sadly  away.  Naturally  there  was  an 
occasional  piece  of  luck,  which  fired  the  assembly 
to  fresh  enthusiasm. 

Peter  stood  still  to  watch,  amused  by  the  wild 
vagaries  of  the  wooden  hoops.  Suddenly  a  small 
voice  at  his  elbow  spoke. 

"It  ain't  easy,  is  it?  I've  thrown  a  shilling  on 
that  there  table  and  not  got  so  much  as  a  penny 
packet  o'  sweets.  It's  dis'eartening ! " 

Peter  looked  round.  At  his  elbow  was  a  small 
and  ugly  girl,  possibly  the  ugliest  girl  on  which 
it  had  ever  been  his  fortune  to  set  eyes.  Her  pale, 
square  face  was  covered  with  freckles,  her  eyes, 
small  and  green,  were  like  little  slits,  her  nose — 
a  mere  apology  for  that  feature — was  a  dab  in  the 


At  a  Fair  251 

middle  of  her  face,  her  mouth  wide  and  formless. 

"  Apparently  it  is  not  easy,"  said  Peter  politely. 
And  then  he  removed  his  eyes  from  her  face,  fear- 
ing that  his  astonishment  at  her  plainness  might 
be  perceived  by  her. 

She  sighed.  "I  wish  I  'adn't  thrown  my  shil- 
ling on  that  there  table.  It's  the  third  year  now 
as  I've  made  a  fool  of  myself,  and  not  a  penny 
left  for  the  'orses  nor  nothin'.  'Tisn't  as  if  I  were 
one  o'  the  girls  wot  folks  treat.  'Oo  could,  with 
a  face  like  mine?" 

There  was  no  complaint  in  the  remark.  It  was 
not  even  a  hint  to  Peter;  it  was  merely  the  grave 
statement  of  a  fact,  with  the  explanation  of  the 
reason  for  it. 

"Why,"  asked  Peter  solemnly,  "did  you  throw 
your  money  on  that  table?" 

She  came  a  trifle  nearer  to  him,  and  spoke  in  a 
whisper. 

" It's  them  two  things,"  she  said.  "That  there 
vase — the  crimson  one  with  the  white  snake  a-curl- 
ing  round  it,  and  the  gold  clock.  I've  watched 
'em  now  for  three  years,  and  me  'eart's  in  me 
mouth  lest  some  one  should  get  the  'oops  over. 
I  can't  get  away  from  'ere,  nor  enjoy  the  fair  no 


252  The  Peacock  Feather 

'ow  for  watchin',  so  the  'orses  and  boats  wouldn't 
be  much  good  even  if  I  'adn't  throwed  that  shilling 
away."  It  was  poured  forth  in  a  rapid  undertone, 
as  if  the  mere  mention  of  her  longing  might  lead 
a  hoop  to  encircle  either  of  the  two  coveted 
treasures. 

Peter  eyed  them  gravely.  Of  course  they  were 
unutterably  hideous,  that  went  without  saying; 
but  there  they  were,  representing  the  goal — 
unattainable — of  three  years'  ambition. 

"I  wonder — "  said  Peter,  and  stopped.  He 
had  once  had  some  skill  as  a  player  of  quoits. 
He  drew  a  copper  from  his  pocket.  "I'll  have 
three  of  those  hoops,"  he  said  to  the  man  in  charge 
of  the  stall. 

The  Ugly  Little  Girl  watched  him,  anxiety  in 
her  eyes.  Democritus,  at  his  master's  heels,  was 
regarding  the  proceedings  unperturbed. 

Peter  flung  one  hoop;  it  fell  on  the  table  and 
rested  in  its  usual  melancholy  fashion  against  a 
china  figure.  The  Ugly  Little  Girl  heaved  a  sigh 
of  relief;  she  felt  that  her  confidence  had  been 
misplaced. 

Peter  threw  again.  The  hoop  fell  fairly  over 
the  gilt  clock. 


At  a  Fair  253 

"Good!"  said  the  owner  of  the  stall,  with  an 
attempt  at  cheerfulness.  And  he  picked  up  the 
hoop,  handing  Peter  the  clock. 

Amazed,  wrathful,  fighting  with  her  tears,  the 
Ugly  Little  Girl  watched  Peter.  He  threw  a  third 
time.  The  ruby  vase  with  the  white  snake  climb- 
ing up  it  was  neatly  encircled.  The  man  handed 
it  to  Peter  in  a  melancholy  fashion. 

"More  'oops?"  he  asked  dejectedly. 

"Not  at  the  moment,"  returned  Peter  jauntily, 
and  he  moved  away.  The  Ugly  Little  Girl  was 
no  longer  at  his  elbow. 

Peter  worked  his  way  through  the  group  of  en- 
vious admirers  round  the  stall,  and  at  a  little 
distance  he  saw  her.  He  walked  in  her  direction, 
Democritus  at  his  heels. 

"Permit  me,"  quoth  Peter  as  he  approached. 

She  turned  round;  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears, 
her  mouth  distorted  in  a  grimace  of  woe. 

"Now,  by  all  the  gods,"  exclaimed  Peter, 
amazed,  "what's  the  matter  with  the  child?" 

"Might  'ave  known  you'd  'ave  got  them. 
Might  'ave  known  the  luck  was  all  agin  me." 

"Ye  gods  and  little  fishes!"  cried  Peter,  raising 
his  eyes  to  the  sky.  "And  how  was  I  to  know 


254  The  Peacock  Feather 

you  wanted  the  honour  of  throwing  the  blessed 
little  wooden  hoops  yourself?  I  fancied  it  was 
the  mere  possession  of  the  gorgeous  articles  that 
you  coveted." 

"What  d'yc-ii  mean?"  she  queried. 

"I  acquired  these  treasures,"  returned  Peter, 
"with  the  sole  intention  of  presenting  them  to 
you.  If,  however,  I  have  been  mistaken " 

"For  me!"  It  had  never  dawned  upon  her 
that  any  one  would  willingly  part  with  such 
treasures,  once  acquired. 

"Of  course,"  said  Peter  patiently,  "for  you. 
May  I  ask  what  else  you  imagined  I  was  going 
to  do  with  them?"  He  held  the  gilt  clock  and 
the  ruby  vase  towards  her. 

Her  ugly  face  was  all  a-quiver  with  rapture. 
"Oh!"  she  breathed,  and  she  looked  at  Peter  with 
adoring  eyes. 

"Here,  take  them!"  laughed  Peter. 

She  took  them  tenderly,  still  half-unbelieving 
in  her  good  fortune. 

"I  never  thought,"  she  whispered,  "that  no 
one  would  'ave  thrown  'oops  for  me.  Oh,  I 
say!" 

Peter  looked  at  her,  and  then  some  spirit  took 


At  a  Fair  255 

possession  of  him.  Perhaps  it  was  one  of  enter- 
prise, perhaps  it  was  one  of  mischief,  perhaps  it 
was  one  of  kindliness,  or  perhaps — and  this  is 
more  probable — it  was  a  mixture  of  all  three. 

"Shall  we  do  the  fair  together?"  he  asked. 

It  was  her  turn  now  to  look  at  him.  Incre- 
dulity, joy,  and  something  akin  to  tears  struggled 
for  the  mastery.  The  last  are  apt  to  come  to  the 
surface  at  a  kindness  to  one  not  used  to  it. 

"I — I — d'you  mean  it?"  she  asked,  ecstatic. 

"With  all  the  faith  in  the  world,"  replied  Peter. 
"Come  along." 

They  were  an  odd  trio — the  tall,  lean  man  in 
his  shabby  coat  and  trousers  and  the  fantastic 
peacock  feather  in  his  hat,  the  small  ugly  girl  in 
her  tawdry  finery,  the  mongrel  puppy  which 
trotted  solemnly  at  Peter's  heels. 

To  the  Ugly  Little  Girl  it  was  a  never-to-be- 
forgotten  afternoon.  She  had  a  man  all  of  her 
own,  and  one,  too,  who  flung  shillings  abroad  with 
never  so  much  as  a  hint  at  his  reckless  expendi- 
ture. Never  again  was  she  to  care  for  the  pitying 
looks  cast  upon  her  lonely  self  by  the  other  girls 
who  walked  abroad  with  their  swains.  Never 
again  was  she  lonely.  Her  life  was  to  hold  a 


256  The  Peacock  Feather 

dream-knight,  a  man  with  sad  eyes  and  a  whim- 
sical smile,  who  had  fe"ted  her  throughout  one 
glorious  September  day.  And  her  dream  was 
infinitely  more  beautiful  than  any  other  girl's 
reality,  for  in  it  her  man  was  ever  courtly,  ever 
considerate,  laughing,  gay,  with  odd  little  speeches 
that  somehow  tugged  at  her  heart-strings  and 
brought  the  happy  tears  to  her  eyes.  There  was 
never  a  blow,  never  a  harsh  word,  such  as  fell  too 
often  to  the  lot  of  the  others.  Thrice  happy 
Ugly  Little  Girl,  with  her  one  day  of  innocent  joy 
and  her  dream  throughout  her  life ! 

As  for  Peter,  having  undertaken  the  r61e  of 
swain,  you  may  be  sure  he  played  his  part  royally. 
He  whirled  on  wooden  horses  till  his  brain  was 
dizzy,  while  Democritus,  from  the  safety  of  the 
solid  earth,  watched  his  antics  in  dumb  amazement, 
marvelling  at  his  undignified  proceedings.  He 
bought  and  ate  waffles  made  by  a  stout  woman  with 
a  motherly  face,  who  blessed  the  two  in  a  way  that 
caused  the  Ugly  Little  Girl  to  blush  scarlet  and 
convulsed  Peter  with  inward  laughter;  he  bought 
sticks  of  sugar-candy  and  huge  peppermints 
called  "humbugs";  and  finally  he  watched  a 
hunchbacked  harlequin,  in  green  and  gold  spangles, 


At  a  Fair  257 

turn  somersaults  and  jest  for  the  motley  herd 
around  him. 

The  Ugly  Little  Girl  gazed  in  awestruck  wonder, 
laughing  every  now  and  then  in  a  spasm  of  mer- 
riment. Suddenly  she  looked  up  and  saw  Peter's 
face. 

"Don't  it  make  you  laugh?"  she  queried. 
"Ain't  it  funny?" 

"For  the  crowd,  perhaps,"  answered  Peter. 
"But  for  the  harlequin — "  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  the  Ugly  Little  Girl  somehow 
understood  and  ceased  to  smile. 

Later  they  saw  him  outside  a  tent;  he  was 
jesting  no  longer.  Morose,  silent,  he  was  gazing 
on  the  ground.  Peter  said  a  word  or  two, 
insignificant  but  friendly. 

"Ah!"  said  the  fellow,  looking  up;  "you  can 
see  the  man  beneath  the  fool." 

"  Many  of  us  wear  the  cap  and  bells,"  said  Peter. 
"It's  better  to  raise  a  laugh  than  be  an  object  of 
pity  to  a  non-understanding  multitude." 

"You,  too!"  said  the  man.  "Another  in  the 
world  with  a  laugh  on  his  lips  and  an  ache  at  his 
heart!" 

"Sighing   won't   ease   the   ache,"   said   Peter; 

17 


258  The  Peacock  Feather 

"and  a  laugh  is  often  more  dignified  than  a  groan." 

"You're  right  there,"  was  the  answer.  "And 
a  laughing  fool  is  better  than  a  moping  wise 
man." 

"Well  said!"  quoth  Peter.  And  then  there 
was  a  call  from  within  the  tent,  and  the  harlequin 
vanished  with  a  nod. 

"I  understand,"  said  the  Ugly  Little  Girl 
slowly.  "It  ain't  nice  to  be  laughed  at  because 
you  'ave  an  ugly  body,  but  it's  better  to  let  folk 
laugh  at  you  and  laugh  with  them  than  go  around 
with  a  long  face.  It's  comfortin'  to  think  that 
God  don't  take  no  account  of  your  body.  They 
say  as  'ow  'E  made  it,  but  I'm  thinking  as  it's 
your  father  and  mother  'as  a  good  'and  in  it,  and 
it  ain't  fair  to  lay  all  the  blame  on  God." 

"Oh  no,"  said  Peter  airily  but  vaguely,  and 
completely  at  a  loss  for  a  suitable  reply.  And 
then  he  bethought  him  of  the  coco-nut  shies, 
and  led  the  way  in  that  direction. 

"Ain't  you  givin'  me  a  time!"  said  the  Ugly 
Little  Girl  gleefully. 

Much  later,  in  the  gathering  dusk,  there  was 
dancing;  and,  as  is  the  way  with  fairs,  a  certain 
roughness  and  rowdyism  began  to  prevail.  Peter 


At  a  Fair  259 

had  his  own  ideas  as  to  the  propriety  of  certain 
places  for  women,  of  whatever  class. 

"It  is  time  you  left,"  he  remarked  coolly. 

She  glanced  up,  surprised. 

"It  is,"  said  Peter  authoritatively,  "too  rough 
here  now  for  a  woman." 

She  blushed  with  pleasure.  The  other  swains 
would  keep  their  girls  there  till  Heaven  knows 
what  o'clock. 

"Where  do  you  live?"  demanded  Peter. 

"In  Watermill  Street,"  she  replied,  meek,  de- 
lighted. And  then,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  honesty, 
"I'm — I'm  only  a  maid-of -all- work." 

"Jack-of -all- trades,"  smiled  Peter.  "I'll  give 
myself  the  pleasure  of  escorting  you  to  your  door." 

They  walked  through  the  deserted  streets. 
Every  man  abroad  was  at  the  fair.  Democritus 
followed.  It  had  been  a  day  of  perplexity  to  him. 

The  Ugly  Little  Girl  was  fumbling  with  one 
hand  at  her  neck;  in  the  other  arm  she  held  the 
precious  clock  and  vase. 

"What,"  asked  Peter  politely,  "is  the  trouble? 
Can  I  assist  you?" 

"'Ere,  'old  them  a  minute,  will  you?"  She 
thrust  the  clock  and  vase  towards  him.  Peter 


260  The  Peacock  Feather 

took  them.  She  fumbled  now  with  both  hands, 
and  in  a  moment  brought  them  away,  holding  in 
them  a  small  medal,  one  of  the  Immaculate  Con- 
ception. It  was  attached  to  a  thick  boot-lace. 

Peter  gazed  at  her. 

"I  'aven't  nothin'  else  worth  'avin',"  she  said 
hurriedly.  "Father  Mordaunt  'e  blessed  it  for 
me.  I'd — I'd  like  you  to  take  it." 

Peter  looked  from  the  medal  and  boot-lace  to 
the  ugly,  imploring  face. 

"Oh,  but — "  he  said,  and  he  hesitated.  It 
was  obviously  a  great  possession. 

"Father  Mordaunt  'e'd  never  mind,"  she  said 
earnestly;  "and — and  Our  Lady '11  understand, 
seein'  as  'ow  it's  the  only  thing  I've  got  to  give 
you,  and  you've  made  me  so  'appy."  She  still 
tendered  it,  wistful,  anxious. 

Peter  took  it,  and  dropped  it,  boot-lace  and  all, 
into  his  pocket. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said  quietly,  with  no  trace 
of  whimsical  nonsense  now  in  his  tone. 

Then  she  took  the  clock  and  vase  again  from  him, 
and  they  turned  into  Watermill  Street.  At  a 
door  she  paused. 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  try  and  say  thank  you,"  she 


At  a  Fair  261 

whispered,  "because  I  can't.  I  know  you're  a 
real  gentleman — not  only  by  your  speech,  but 
by  the  way  you've  treated  me  so  considerate  and 
good.  I'll  pray  to  Our  Lady  for  you  as  long  as 
ever  I  live,  and  ask  'Er  to  give  you  whatever  you 
wants  most.  And  I'll  begin  this  very  night." 

"Oh,"  smiled  Peter,  "you  queer,  dear  little 
girl!"  But  though  he  smiled  his  eyes  were  a 
trifle  misty.  It  had  been,  after  all,  a  mere  freak 
of  fancy  on  his  part  to  play  the  squire  of  dames 
to  a  small  maid-of-all-work  that  afternoon.  He 
felt  himself  to  be  a  bit  of  a  fraud,  undeserving  of 
this  wealth  of  gratitude.  He  crushed  the  small 
work-worn  fingers  hard  in  his. 

And  so  the  two  parted.  It  had  been  a  trifling 
incident;  but,  after  all,  it  is  rather  pleasant  to 
think  of,  as  somehow  characteristic  of  Peter. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

ON  THE  CLOUD 

IT  was  about  the  third  week  in  January  that 
Peter  reached  a  certain  town  named  Congleton, 
and  leaving  it  behind  him,  walked  towards  a 
mountain  named  the  Cloud. 

The  weather  was  now  inclement;  cold  winds 
blew,  driving  showers  of  sleet  and  rain  assailed 
him,  making  the  progress  of  the  vagabond  Peter 
far  from  pleasant. 

Bundle  on  back,  his  hands  deep  in  the  pockets 
of  a  rough  frieze  overcoat  he  had  purchased 
some  three  months  previously,  he  tramped  along 
the  road,  Democritus  at  his  heels.  It  might 
well  be  wondered  why  Peter  did  not  seek  some 
lodging  during  these  inclement  months,  and  in 
answer  there  is  nothing  to  say  beyond  the  fact 
that  a  certain  odd  strain  in  him  led  him  to  con- 
tinue his  present  mode  of  living.  He  preferred 
inclemency  of  weather,  entire  isolation,  to  life 

262 


On  the  Cloud  263 

under  a  roof,  with  the  chance  of  meeting  his 
fellow-men.  Perhaps  it  was  strange,  but  after 
all  had  he  not  already  spent  more  than  two  years 
on  the  roads,  so  may  not  the  love  of  the  open 
have  taken  possession  of  him?  At  all  events  it 
is  not  what  he  might  have  done,  but  what  he 
actually  did,  with  which  this  history  has  to  deal. 

Somewhere  up  on  the  top  of  the  Cloud,  with 
its  back  to  a  small  wood  of  pines  and  with  a  strip 
of  moorland  and  then  the  road  in  front  of  it, 
stands  a  small  deserted  hut.  It  is  no  more  than  a 
hovel  of  one  tiny  room,  and  perhaps  at  one  time 
it  was  used  as  a  shepherd's  shelter. 

It  was  drawing  on  to  the  wintry  dusk  when 
Peter  saw  it  in  the  gloom,  lying  to  the  left  of  him 
from  the  road.  He  crossed  the  strip  of  moorland 
and  went  towards  it.  He  found  it,  as  he  had 
fancied  he  might,  entirely  empty.  There  was  a 
hole  in  the  roof  through  which  the  rain  was  driving 
and  the  broken  door  rattled  on  its  hinges.  It  was 
very  different  from  a  cottage  he  had  discovered 
some  months  previously,  but  it  was  at  all  events 
some  kind  of  shelter,  and  the  cold  without  was 
bitter. 

"We'll  take  possession,"  said  Peter  to  Demo- 


264  The  Peacock  Feather 

critus.  "It  cannot  be  styled  a  princely  habita- 
tion— in  fact,  it's  uncommonly  wretched.  But 
I  fancy  it  will  be  more  desirable  than  the  road 
to-night." 

He  unfastened  his  bundle  and  set  it  on  the 
earth  floor.  Outside  the  wind  howled  in  fury; 
mist,  rain,  and  gathering  dusk  blotted  out  the 
landscape  beyond  the  road. 

"Ugh!"  said  Peter  with  a  shudder,  "it's 
remarkably  unpleasant. " 

He  unpacked  his  bundle.  There  was  half  a 
loaf  of  bread,  a  tin  of  sardines,  a  bottle  of  water, 
a  small  flask  of  whisky,  and  a  bone  with  some  meat 
on  it  for  Democritus. 

They  finished  their  meal  together,  and  then 
Peter  still  sat  with  his  back  to  the  wall,  as  far 
away  from  the  broken  door  as  possible,  watching 
the  rain  that  fell  through  the  hole  in  the  roof. 
For  nearly  the  first  time  since  he  had  begun  his 
wanderings  he  was  physically  wretched.  Fate 
had  for  a  short  time  lifted  his  mental  loneliness 
from  him,  only  to  plunge  him  deeper  into  it. 
Mental  loneliness,  however,  he  had  done  his  best 
to  accept  with  what  philosophy  he  might,  but  now 
physical  loneliness,  entire  discomfort,  and  bodily 


On  the  Cloud  265 

depression  were  weighing  hard  upon  him.  He  felt 
he  had  lost  the  grit  to  fight  further.  A  quixotic 
action  of  long  ago  suddenly  presented  itself  to  him 
as  an  entirely  idiotic  proceeding  on  his  part.  Why 
on  earth  had  he  ruined  his  own  life,  cut  himself 
off  from  communion  with  his  fellow-men,  for  a 
mere  romantic  notion? 

"I'm  beaten,"  said  Peter  to  himself,  "done! 
I  fancied  I  was  doing  a  fine  thing.  I  thought 
myself,  no  doubt,  a  bit  of  a  hero;  and  now  I'm  a 
coward,  a  turncoat,  who'd  give  a  very  great  deal 
to  undo  the  past." 

He  was  wretched,  entirely  wretched,  and  even 
the  soft  warm  tongue  of  Democritus  against  his 
hand  was  of  no  smallest  comfort  to  him. 

He  looked  at  the  bundle  on  the  ground  beside 
him.  It  contained  his  manuscript,  fair,  complete 
but  for  the  title  and  signature  and  the  dedication 
should  he  choose  to  give  it  one.  It  brought  him 
no  atom  of  pleasure ;  it  appeared  to  him  worthless, 
a  thing  of  false  sentiment,  talking  of  high  courage, 
of  nobility  of  thought,  which  in  reality  vanished 
like  a  pricked  air-bubble  the  moment  the  finger 
of  fact  was  laid  upon  it. 

How  in  the  name  of  fortune  had  he  kept  his 


266  The  Peacock  Feather 

spirits  buoyed  up  all  these  years?  And  why 
in  Heaven's  name  had  the  buoyancy  suddenly 
deserted  him?  Peter  turned  about  in  his  mind 
for  a  solution  of  the  problem.  Presently  he 
found  it.  It  came  with  something  like  a  shock. 
He  was  older,  that  was  the  reason.  Close  on  six 
years  had  rolled  over  his  head  since  the  day  he 
had  surrendered  all  for  an  extravagant  notion. 
It  is  the  young,  Peter  reflected  sagely,  who  take 
their  all  and  throw  it  with  both  hands  on  the 
altar  of  sacrifice.  They  do  not  realize — how 
should  they  in  their  youthful  optimism? — what 
they  are  giving  up.  They  have  never  known 
monotony,  the  grey  years  that  roll  by  with 
nothing  in  heaven  or  earth  to  break  their  dulness. 

"Something  will  happen  to  make  up  to  us," 
they  cry.  But — so  Peter  reflected  from  the 
wisdom  of  his  present  vast  age  (he  was  two-and- 
thirty  be  it  stated) — nothing  does  happen.  We 
burn  our  all  heroically,  and  then  are  surprised 
to  find  that  there  is  no  life  in  the  grey  ashes  left 
to  us.  His  optimism  had  gone,  vanished,  and 
nothing  but  a  deep  pessimism  remained  to  him. 

"It's  no  use,  Democritus, "  he  said,  as  with 
tongue  and  wagging  tail  the  small  creature  tried 


On  the  Cloud  267 

to  cheer  this  terrible  mood  that  had  fallen  upon 
his  master,  "it's  no  use.  I've  made  a  mull  of 
things,  and  perhaps  it's  just  as  well  to  know  when 
I  am  beaten.  And  yet  if " 

Unpleasant  little  word,  which  so  often  prefaces 
all  the  joys  that  might  have  been  and  are  not. 

Bear  with  Peter  in  his  present  mood.  The 
marvel  is  it  had  never  fallen  upon  him  before, 
and  that  it  had  not  must  be  accounted  for  by 
the  fact  that  youth,  health,  and  what  had 
appeared  as  indomitable  good  spirits  were  all  in 
his  favour. 

It  is  useless,  however,  to  dwell  on  his  misery. 
Picture  him,  if  you  will,  as  wretched  as  man  well 
could  be.  He  was,  after  all,  only  human,  and  up 
till  now  he  had  fought  his  fight  bravely. 

He  slept  little  throughout  the  night.  About 
midnight  the  wind  dropped  suddenly,  and  by 
the  light  of  a  candle  he  saw  snowflakes  falling 
through  the  hole  in  the  roof.  He  was  trying  to 
console  himself  with  Conard's  life  of  Beethoven, 
which  he  had  purchased;  but  with  the  remem- 
brance of  the  woman  who  had  recommended  him 
to  read  it  before  his  mind,  the  consolation  was  not 
overgreat. 


268  The  Peacock  Feather 

Towards  morning  he  fell  into  a  fitful  slumber 
which  lasted  till  dawn.  Then  he  awakened, 
roused  himself,  yawned  and  stretched.  The 
memory  of  his  mood  of  the  previous  night  re- 
curred to  his  mind.  He  felt  suddenly  ashamed, 
though  there  had  been  none  but  his  own  soul  and 
Democritus  to  witness  it.  Courage,  high-handed, 
sprang  again  within  him.  He  flung  last  night's 
mood  behind  him,  and  brave-eyed  faced  the  future. 
And  with  what  is  to  follow  it  is  good  to  think  that 
he  did  so. 

He  got  up,  and  went  to  the  cottage  door. 

The  earth  lay  snow-covered  and  very  still. 
Since  midnight  the  air  had  been  thick  with 
feathery  flakes  falling  gently,  silently.  Just  be- 
fore dawn  they  had  ceased,  and  now  the  world 
lay  under  the  soft  mantle.  White  and  spectre- 
like  the  trees  reared  their  branches  against  the 
cold  grey  sky.  Only  here  and  there  the  berries 
of  the  holly  and  the  rowan-tree  gleamed  scarlet 
against  the  snow.  A  little  stream  that  in  summer 
made  faint  music  as  it  wended  its  way  to  the 
right  of  the  hut,  finally  losing  itself  in  the  shadow 
of  the  pinewood,  was  now  frost-bound  and  silent. 
Over  everything  lay  an  intense  stillness,  an  un- 


On  the  Cloud  269 

earthly  purity.  The  ground  before  the  hut  was 
covered  with  curious  little  star-like  lines  im- 
printed in  the  snow,  the  impress  of  the  feet  of 
feathered  wayfarers  seeking  for  food  which  was 
not  to  be  found. 

And  then  through  the  silent  frosty  air  came 
clear  sounds — the  barking  of  a  sheepdog,  the 
clarion  note  of  a  cock  in  an  outlying  farmyard, 
and,  very  distant,  the  sound  of  a  church  clock 
chiming  the  hour. 

The  eastern  sky  began  to  flush  with  colour. 
An  amber  light  stole  upward  through  the  grey, 
turning  to  rose  and  then  to  deeper  crimson. 
The  white  earth  pulsated,  breathed,  awakened. 
Softly  it  reflected  the  crimson  of  the  sky,  and  then 
slowly,  majestically,  the  sun,  a  glowing  ball  of 
fire,  came  up  over  the  horizon. 

Peter  stood  gazing  at  the  fairy  magic  of  the 
scene.  It  was  a  pure  transformation  after  the 
bleak  dreariness  of  the  previous  night. 

And  then  suddenly  he  saw  a  man  coming 
along  the  road — a  man  tall,  broad-shouldered, 
of  a  build  akin  to  his  own.  A  thick  coat  covered 
him,  its  fur  collar  well  pulled  up  to  his  ears;  a 
cloth  cap  was  on  his  head. 


270  The  Peacock  Feather 

"Hullo,"  said  Peter  to  himself,  "he's  early 
a-foot!" 

The  man  paused,  looked  in  the  direction  of 
the  hut,  then  turned  and  tramped  quickly  across 
the  snow  towards  him.  As  he  came  nearer  Peter 
saw  a  pleasant  freckled  face,  brown  eyes  like  a 
dog's,  a  firm  short  chin,  and  a  small  reddish 
moustache. 

Within  three  or  four  yards  of  him  the  stranger 
halted  and  spoke. 

"Is  your  name,  by  good  luck,  Peter  Garden?" 

"It  is,"  said  Peter,  surprised,  wondering. 

"Thank  Heaven!"  murmured  he  of  the  freckles 
piously.  "I've  found  you  at  last!  Come  along 
back  to  the  hotel  with  me  and  we'll  talk  as  we  go. 
I'm  famishing  for  breakfast." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

A   MIRACLE 

AND  here  it  is  necessary  to  record  certain  things 
which  led  up  to  this — to  Peter — most  extraordi- 
nary of  meetings:  things  which  those  who  do 
not  believe  in  the  miracles  wrought  by  love 
and  prayer  might  regard  as  almost  incredible 
coincidences. 

One  afternoon,  it  was  in  the  week  between 
Christmas  and  the  New  Year,  Father  O'Sullivan 
was  in  the  Westminster  Hospital.  He  had  been 
with  a  sick  man  for  the  last  half-hour  or  so, 
cheering  him  on  his  high-road  to  recovery.  He 
had  only  just  left  him — he  was,  in  fact,  in  the 
corridor — when  a  nursing  Sister,  a  Catholic, 
came  up  to  him. 

"Father,"  she  said,  "there's  a  man — a  gentle- 
man— who  would  like  to  see  you;  he's  a  Catholic 
and  dying.  I  asked  him  to  let  me  send  for  a 

271 


272  The  Peacock  Feather 

priest  yesterday,  and  again  to-day,  but  he  re- 
fused. A  few  moments  ago,  however,  I  hap- 
pened to  mention  your  name  and  say  that  you 
were  in  the  hospital.  He  asked  me  then  to  fetch 
you." 

"Ah!"  said  Father  O'Sullivan,  smoothing  his 
chin,  as  was  the  way  with  him — if  he  had  worn 
a  beard  he  would  have  been  stroking  it;  "where  is 
he?" 

"In  here,  Father."  And  she  led  the  way 
through  a  ward,  and  into  a  small  room  that 
opened  out  of  it. 

Father  O'Sullivan  looked  at  the  man  lying  on 
the  bed.  His  eyes  were  closed,  and  his  face 
almost  deathly  pale  against  the  red  coverlet 
which  was  pulled  up  to  his  chin. 

Father  O'Sullivan  sat  down  by  the  bedside. 
The  man  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  at  him. 

"Well,  Father,"  he  said,  with  a  faint  attempt 
at  a  smile. 

And  then,  in  spite  of  the  pallor,  the  thinness, 
Father  O'Sullivan  recognized  him.  He  saw  in 
him  a  man  he  had  known  from  boyhood,  one  who 
had  attended  his  confessional,  though  for  about 
six  years  he  had  entirely  lost  sight  of  him. 


A  Miracle  273 

"Hugh  Ellerslie!"  exclaimed  he. 

"You  remember  me?"  said  Hugh. 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  replied  Father  O'Sulli- 
van,  "though  it's  six  years  or  thereabouts  since 
I  saw  you." 

"I  know,"  said  Hugh  wearily.  "I  want  to 
talk  to  you,  Father.  They  tell  me  I'm  dying." 

"Well,  now,"  said  the  old  priest  compas- 
sionately, "and  if  that's  so,  isn't  it  a  good  thing 
I'm  here  to  help  you  make  your  peace,  to  have 
you  tell  me  what  it  is  is  troubling  you?" 

For  a  moment  Hugh  was  silent. 

"I've  a  confession  to  make,  Father,"  he  said 
presently.  The  Sister  moved  towards  the  door. 

"No,"  said  Hugh,  "don't  go.  How  long 
have  I  got  to  live?" 

"Some  hours  at  least,"  said  the  Sister  gently. 

Hugh  smiled.  "Well,  you'd  better  both  hear 
what  I've  got  to  say.  It  won't  take  long,  but 
I  can  think  of  nothing  else  till  I've  said  it.  Perhaps 
you,  Sister,  will  write  down  what  is  necessary. 
I  can  sign  it  presently,  and,  at  all  events,  there 
will  be  two  witnesses. " 

At  a  sign  from  Father  O' Sullivan  the  nurse 
crossed  to  the  other  side  of  the  bed. 

IS 


274  The  Peacock  Feather 

"Now,  my  son,"  said  Father  O'Sullivan  quietly, 
tenderly. 

"I  have  let  another  man  suffer  instead  of  me," 
said  Hugh  steadily.  "His  name — please  get  that 
down  clearly,  Sister — is  Peter  Garden. " 

Father  O'Sullivan  did  not  move,  but  he  drew 
a  long  breath.  And  there  are  some  people  who 
say  that  the  age  of  miracles  is  past ! 

"There's  no  need  to  enter  into  all  particulars," 
went  on  Hugh;  "it  would  mean  rather  compli- 
cated business  details  that  really  don't  signify. 
But  get  this  down  clearly.  About  five  or  six 
years  ago,  Peter  Garden  was  accused  of  forgery 
and  embezzlement.  He  was  put  on  his  trial  and 
pleaded  guilty.  He  got  three  years  in  Portland 
Gaol.  He  was  innocent;  he  was  shielding  me. 
Everything  of  which  he  was  accused,  and  to  which 
he  pleaded  guilty,  was  done  by  me.  Is  that 
clear,  Father?" 

"Perfectly  clear,  my  son." 

"We  were  friends,"  went  on  Hugh,  "school 
friends,  college  friends.  Peter  always  hauled 
me  out  of  scrapes.  He  stuck  to  me  through 
thick  and  thin.  I  believe  this  last  time  it  was  as 
much  for  my  old  mother's  sake  as  mine  that 


A  Miracle  275 

he  stood  by  me.  She  was  very  fond  of  Peter. 
I  said,"  a  slow  colour  mounted  in  the  white 
face,  "that  it  was  for  her  sake  that  I  let  him  do 
it;  it  wasn't — at  least,  not  only  that.  I  was  a 
coward.  She  died  about  a  year  after  Peter  had 
been  in  prison.  I  might  have  come  forward  then. 
I  didn't ;  I  went  abroad.  I  came  back  to  England 
only  about  six  months  ago."  He  stopped. 

"Anything  else?"  asked  Father  O'Sullivan 
gravely  and  tenderly. 

"That's  all,"  said  Hugh  wearily,  "at  least, 
with  regard  to  that.  I'd  like  Peter  to  know  that, 
cur  though  I've  been  to  him,  I've  always  been 
fond  of  him.  Tell  him,  if  you  can,  Father,  that 
I've  tried  to  run  straight  since,  because  of  him 
and  what  he  did.  I  wasn't  getting  on  badly,  but 
now " 

"He  shall  be  told,"  said  Father  O'Sullivan. 

"Do  you  know  where  he  is?"  asked  Hugh. 
"You  speak  as  if  you  knew  him." 

"I've  heard  of  him,"  replied  Father  O'Sullivan, 
"and  though  I  don't  know  where  he  is  now, 
he  shall  be  found." 

Again  Hugh  was  silent.  After  a  moment  he 
spoke. 


276  The  Peacock  Feather 

"If  you've  got  all  that  down,  Sister,  I'll  sign 
it.  You're  sure  it  will  be  all  right,  Father;  that 
it  will  let  every  one  know,  and  clear  him  entirely?" 

"Perfectly  sure." 

The  Sister  put  the  paper  by  Hugh's  hand, 
and  he  signed  a  straggling,  wavering  signature. 
He  let  the  pen  fall.  Then  he  looked  up  at  the 
Sister. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "there  are  other  things. 
Will  you ?" 

And  the  Sister  left  the  room,  closing  the  door 
noiselessly  behind  her. 

It  was  after  seven  o'clock  before  Father 
O'Sullivan  finally  left  the  hospital.  He  had 
left  it  once  to  fetch  the  Sacraments  for  which 
Hugh  had  asked.  And  then,  when  the  full 
peace  of  forgiveness  and  union  had  fallen  upon 
him,  he  had  lain  very  still. 

Once  when  Father  O'Sullivan  had  moved  he 
had  spoken  wistfully. 

"Must  you  go,  Father?" 

"Not  at  all,  as  long  as  you're  caring  for  me 
to  be  with  you." 

Hugh  turned  his  face  on  the  pillow. 


A  Miracle  277 

"If  it  hadn't  been  you  this  afternoon,  Father!" 
he  said. 

"The  good  God  understood  that,"  said  Father 
O'Sullivan  calmly,  "and  just  sent  me  along  to 
see  Tim  Donoghue,  who's  the  very  saint  of  a 
fellow  when  he's  sick,  and  would  have  me  be 
reading  to  him  and  praying  for  him  by  the  hour, 
and  me  with  other  jobs  to  be  looking  after." 

"We're  all  like  that,  perhaps,"  said  Hugh, 
smiling. 

"Faith,  and  it's  a  good  thing  too,"  was  the 
reply.  "And  to  whom  but  your  Mother  should 
you  be  going  when  you're  sick,  and  in  whose 
arms  but  hers  should  you  be  dying?" 

And  then  there  was  a  silence,  broken  occa- 
sionally by  little  remarks  from  Hugh,  who, 
coward  though  he  might  have  been  once,  and 
more  than  once,  was  no  coward  now  that  he  was 
dying.  And  Father  O'Sullivan  had  responded 
with  little  tender  speeches,  such  as  a  mother 
indeed  might  make  to  a  child. 

And  now  he  was  walking  towards  Muriel's 
house  in  Cadogan  Place,  and  thanking  God  in 
his  kind,  big  old  heart  for  a  soul  which  had  passed 
peacefully  away. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE   FINE   WAY 


"AND  so,"  said  Father  O'Sullivan,  blowing  his 
nose,  "I  came  right  along  to  tell  you,  and  ask 
you  what  is  the  next  step  to  take. " 

"Poor  chap!"  ejaculated  Tommy,  deliver- 
ing himself  of  a  huge  sigh.  He  was  standing 
on  the  hearthrug,  immaculately  attired  in  dinner 
jacket,  white  shirt-front,  and  all  the  rest  of  the 
paraphernalia. 

Muriel  gave  a  little  choke.  She  was  sitting 
near  him  in  a  dress  of  her  favourite  pale  green. 
Father  O'Sullivan  had  descended  on  them  both 
as  they  were  waiting  in  the  drawing-room  for 
the  announcement  of  dinner.  It  had,  be  it 
stated,  already  been  made,  but  little  heed  had 
been  paid  thereto,  and  the  butler  in  wrathful 
terms  was  now  ordering  the  soup  to  be  taken 
below  again. 

278 


The  Fine  Way  279 

"And  what  are  you  both  looking  so  glum 
about?"  demanded  Father  O'Sullivan  fiercely. 
"Faith,  and  weren't  you  having  me  say  Masses, 
and  yourself  setting  up  candles  to  St.  Joseph, 
that  that  young  Quixote — what's-his-name — 
might  hold  up  his  head  again?  And  now  that 
the  good  Lord  has  answered  our  prayers  and 
cleared  him,  and  let  that  poor  boy  make  a  good 
confession  and  pass  peacefully  away,  you're  look- 
ing as  mournful  as  a  mute  at  a  funeral.  Was  it 
perhaps  some  other  way  you'd  have  been  having 
God  arrange  things  and  not  His  way  at  all?"  He 
stuffed  his  handkerchief  back  vigorously  in  his 
pocket  as  he  spoke. 

"But,"  quoth  Tommy  in  a  slightly  haughty 
fashion,  feeling  this  speech  somewhat  of  an 
aspersion  on  his  wife's  wet  eyes,  "you  will  not, 
I  imagine,  deny  that  it  was  sad?" 

"Sad!  Of  course  it  was  sad,  what  happened 
first.  But  can't  you  see  the  fine  way,  the  beau- 
tiful way,  God  has  taken  away  the  sadness? 
You're  all  for  saying  Paradise  must  be  a  grand 
place,  but  directly  a  soul  gets  a  bit  nearer  to  it 
you're  for  weeping  and  wailing  and  crying  '  Poor 
fellow!'" 


280  The  Peacock  Feather 

Muriel  choked  back  her  tears.  Smiling  at 
the  old  priest  and  the  half-wrathful  Tommy, 
she  spoke. 

"And  you're  just  as  near  crying  yourself  as 
I  am,  Father,"  she  protested.  "And  it's  that 
is  making  you  so  abominably  rude  and  cross 
to  us  both." 

"  Huh ! "  said  Father  O'Sullivan,  and  he  coughed, 
putting  up  his  hand  to  his  mouth.  And  both  cough 
and  gesture  hid  that  his  lips  were  trembling. 

"And  now,"  he  requested  after  a  moment, 
his  voice  steady  and  a  trifle  dry,  "what's  to  be 
done  next?" 

"Find  Mr.  Garden,  of  course,"  announced 
Muriel  with  airy  decision,  as  who  should  say 
that  was  a  fact  apparent  to  the  most  infantine 
intelligence. 

"And  it's  all  very  well  to  say  'Find  him,'" 
remarked  Father  O'Sullivan  dryly,  "but  have 
you  the  faintest  suspicion  of  a  notion  where  he 
is  at  all?" 

"Not  the  least,"  quoth  Muriel  cheerfully; 
"that  is  exactly  what  we  have  to  discover." 

"And  how  will  you  be  doing  that  may  I  ask?  " 

Muriel   leant  forward,   finger- tips  pressed   to- 


The  Fine  Way  281 

gether,  speaking  with  the  decision  of  one  who  has 
thoroughly  weighed  the  whole  problem. 

"First  we  must  tell  General  Garden,  and  see 
if  he  knows  where  he  is.  I  don't  think  he  does, 
but  we  must  find  out  for  certain.  Then  there 
are  his  publishers — oh,  yes, "  in  answer  to  Tommy's 
elevated  eyebrows — "he  has  written  a  book,  a 
very  good  book  indeed,  and  thereby  hangs  more 
of  a  tale  than  is  enclosed  within  its  covers.  Failing 
both  those  plans, "  she  concluded  firmly,  "Tommy 
must  find  him." 

"Faith,"  said  Father  O'Sullivan  admiringly, 
"it's  a  fine  thing  to  be  a  husband!" 

And  then  a  second  time  the  drawing-room 
door  opened,  and  a  second  time  a  voice  announced, 
this  time  in  accents  of  deep  reproach,  that  dinner 
was  on  the  table. 

Muriel  looked  at  both  the  men.  "Oh,"  she 
cried,  "didn't  he  tell  us  that  before?  I  feel* 
apologetic.  He's  such  a  treasure,  and  so  is  the 
cook — both  artists  in  their  way,  and  we're  spoiling 
their  artistic  efforts.  Come,  both  of  you.  We'll 
talk  more  at  dinner."  A  whirl  of  chiffons  and 
daintiness,  she  led  the  way  downstairs. 

In  the  intervals  of  the  servant's  absence  from 


282  The  Peacock  Feather 

the  room,  she  promulgated  plans,  like  any  old 
veteran  at  the  beginning  of  a  campaign.  If  they 
sounded  somewhat  fantastic  plans  it  is  certain 
that  neither  man  had  any  better  to  offer.  And 
what,  in  her  opinion,  was  more  feasible,  more 
practicable,  than  that  Tommy  should  take  the 
car  to  Abbotsleigh,  where  Peter  was  last  seen  by 
Anne,  and  from  there  scour  the  country  for  a 
man  with  a  peacock  feather  in  his  hat?  It  was, 
she  assured  them  both,  the  simplest  of  proceedings. 

By  the  end  of  dinner  they  had  warmed  to  her 
ideas,  confessing  at  least  that  no  better  solution 
of  the  difficulty  presented  itself  to  them.  Further, 
she  told  them,  and  on  this  point  she  was  firm,  that 
they  must  both  go  that  very  evening  and  tell 
General  Garden  the  present  state  of  affairs.  For 
herself,  she  thought  Anne  was  expecting  her. 
Yes;  she  was  convinced  Anne  was  expecting  her, 
but  she  would  telephone  through  and  make  sure 
while  they  were  finishing  their  cigars.  Thus  she 
departed  from  the  room. 

Anne's  voice  at  the  other  end  of  the  telephone 
presently  answered  her.  Yes,  she  would  be  at 
home  that  evening,  and  delighted  to  see  Muriel. 
But  what  was  the  matter  of  importance  of  which 


The  Fine  Way  283 

Muriel  had  to  speak?  Too  long  to  communicate 
at  the  moment?  Oh,  well,  Anne  must  possess 
her  soul  in  patience  till  Muriel  arrived. 

And  then  Muriel  hung  up  the  receiver,  and 
rang  for  the  footman,  on  whose  appearance  she 
ordered  him  to  tell  her  maid  to  bring  a  cloak 
immediately,  and  stated  also  that  she  would 
require  a  taxi  in  ten  minutes.  Then,  as  one 
who  has  put  great  things  in  train,  she  sank  back 
in  a  chair  with  a  sigh  of  relief  and  content. 


General  Garden  was  in  his  smoking-room  when 
the  opening  of  the  door  by  Goring  heralded  the 
entrance  of  Tommy  Lancing  and  a  stout,  elderly 
priest. 

Somewhat  perplexed,  General  Garden  put  down 
the  book  he  had  been  reading,  and  rose  from  his 
chair  to  greet  them.  True,  Tommy  occasionally 
favoured  him  with  his  presence  at  this  hour,  but 
why  should  he  drag  along  with  him  a  man  whom  he 
had  only  once  met,  and  that  man,  moreover,  a 
priest?  He  appeared,  too,  somewhat  embarrassed. 
It  was  the  elder  man  who  was  at  his  ease. 

"We  came  to  see  you,  General,"  said  Tommy, 


284  The  Peacock  Feather 

shaking  hands  and  introducing  Father  O' Sullivan, 
"because  we  thought — that  is,  Muriel — well, 
something  unusual  has  happened."  Neither 
speech  nor  introduction  was  made  after  Tommy's 
customary  suave  fashion. 

"Ah!"  said  General  Garden,  eyeing  them  both 
keenly,  while  his  heart  gave  a  little  anxious 
throb.  Unusual  news  can  easily  portend  bad 
news.  Also  Tommy's  manner  was  a  trifle  dis- 
concerting. 

"It  is,"  said  Tommy,  "about  your  son." 

"Ah!"  said  General  Garden  again,  this  time 
with  a  quick  intake  of  his  breath.  He  put  his 
hand  up  to  the  mantelpiece.  The  floor  seemed 
not  quite  so  solid  as  he  would  desire  it  to  be. 

"He,"  blurted  out  Tommy  quickly,  "was — 
was  not  guilty.  Father  O'Sullivan  will  tell 
you." 

Thus  in  the  simplest,  most  commonplace  of 
language  can  momentous  announcements  be  made. 
It  would  seem  as  though  there  should  be  a  grander 
language,  a  finer  flow  of  words,  for  these  statements 
and  yet  in  such  bald  fashion  are  they  invariably 
announced. 

There  was  no  question  now  but  that  the  room 


The  Fine  Way  285 

was  certainly  revolving.  Presently  it  steadied 
itself,  and  General  Garden  knew  that  he  was 
sitting  by  the  fire,  the  two  men  opposite  to  him, 
and  that  the  old  priest  was  talking.  Gradually 
his  mind  adjusted  itself  to  facts:  he  heard  and 
understood  the  words  that  were  being  spoken. 
When  they  stopped  there  was  a  silence.  There  is 
so  astonishingly  little  to  be  said  at  such  times, 
though  the  tittle-tattle  of  small  events  will  supply 
us  with  endless  talk. 

"Thank  you  for  coming  to  tell  me,"  said 
General  Garden  gravely,  and  he  pushed  a  box 
of  cigars  towards  the  two  men.  Again  silence. 

Presently  Tommy  began  to  talk,  quietly, 
easily,  now.  He  put  forward  Muriel's  suggestions, 
her  advice,  her  plans.  He  explained  minutely 
the  scheme  she  had  proposed. 

General  Garden  listened  intent. 

"It  is  like  her  kind-heartedness  to  suggest 
it,"  he  said,  as  Tommy  paused,  "and  yours  to 
follow  it  up.  I  have  no  notion  where  he  is,  nor — 
nor  have  his  publishers.  I  happened  to  ask  them 
the  other  day."  He  made  the  statement  with 
an  airy  carelessness  of  manner. 

"Then,"  said  Tommy  with  a  firmness  which 


286  The  Peacock  Feather 

Muriel  would  distinctly  have  approved,  "I  start 
to-morrow. " 

Thus  definitely  was  the  decision  given. 

The  two  stayed  a  while  longer,  Tommy  supply- 
ing most  of  the  remarks  made — conversation  it 
can  not  be  termed. 

General  Garden  kept  falling  into  abstracted 
silences,  in  which  his  eyes  sought  the  fire  and 
his  hand  pulled  gently  at  his  white  moustache. 
Father  O'Sullivan  watched  him  from  under  his 
shaggy  eyebrows.  He  was  not  a  priest  for 
nothing.  He  knew  well  enough  how  to  read  the 
vast  unsaid  between  the  little  said,  and  the  work- 
ings of  the  reserved  old  mind  were  as  clear  as 
daylight  to  him. 

Presently  they  rose  to  depart.  In  the  hall 
General  Garden  spoke. 

"If,"  he  said,  addressing  himself  to  Father 
O'Sullivan,  "you  would  let  me  know  the  day 
and  hour  of  young  Ellerslie's  funeral  I  should 
be  obliged.  He  was  a  friend  of  my  son's." 

And  in  those  words  the  old  man  blotted  out, 
forgave,  the  wrong  Hugh  had  done,  as  Peter 
himself  would  have  wished. 

An  hour  later  Goring  came  in  with  a  tray  on 


The  Fine  Way  287 

which  were  a  tumbler  and  a  jug  of  hot  water. 

General  Garden  looked  up.  "Which  wine 
did  I  drink  to-night?"  he  demanded. 

"The  '54  port,  sir,"  replied  Goring  respect- 
fully. 

' '  Hmm ! ' '  General  Garden  beat  a  faint,  delicate 
tattoo  with  his  fingers  on  the  table.  "I  thought 
so.  How  much  more  is  there?" 

"About  eight  bottles,  sir.  Seven  or  eight 
I  should  say." 

General  Garden  coughed.  "You  need  not 
use  any  more  of  it  at  present,  not  till" — he 
coughed  again —  "Mr.  Peter  comes  home." 

The  most  perfectly  trained  of  butlers  might, 
perhaps,  be  excused  a  slight  start  at  such  a 
statement,  taking  into  consideration,  of  course, 
previous  circumstances.  Goring  unquestionably 
started.  Then  the  mask  was  on  again,  impassive, 
impenetrable. 

General  Garden  still  kept  up  that  light  tattoo. 
He  had  a  statement  to  make.  In  all  fairness 
to  Peter  it  had  to  be  made.  It  was,  however, 
peculiarly  difficult  to  put  into  words. 

He  cleared  his  throat.  "There  was,"  he  said, 
gazing  hard  at  his  fingers,  "a  mistake.  Mr. 


288  The  Peacock  Feather 

Peter  was  shielding  some  one  else."  The  tattoo 
stopped.  The  words  were  out. 

And  then  the  man  broke  through  the  butler. 
The  mask  of  impassivity  vanished. 

"Lord,  sir!"  his  voice  was  triumphant,  "and 
mightn't  we  'ave  known  it,  if  only  we  'adn't  been 
such  a  couple  of  blithering  old  fools." 

General  Garden  stared.  "Ahem!  Goring — really, 
Goring,  I —  "  He  was  for  a  moment  dumbfounded, 
helpless  in  his  amazement.  Then  suddenly  the 
amazement  gave  way  before  a  humorous  smile, 
his  old  eyes  twinkled,  and  he  brought  his  hand 
down  on  the  table  with  a  thump.  "By  God!"  he 
cried;  "you're  right." 

And  Goring  left  the  room  choking  with  varied 
emotions,  but  pulling  down  his  waistcoat  with 
dignified  pleasure  the  while. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

FOUND 

HERE,  now,  are  the  present  employment  and  emo- 
tions of  five  of  our  characters — Tommy,  with 
car  and  chauffeur,  off  to  Devonshire,  which  was 
to  be  the  starting-point  of  his  search  for  a  man 
with  a  peacock  feather  in  his  hat ;  General  Garden 
watching  hourly  (though  it  was  far  too  soon  to 
begin  to  watch)  for  a  telegram  which  should 
acquaint  him  of  the  success  of  the  search;  Anne 
alternating  between  waves  of  pride  and  despair 
and  delicious  secret  joy;  and  Muriel  spending 
hours  with  St.  Joseph,  imploring  the  dear  Saint 
to  hurry  up  with  the  job  he  had  so  successfully 
begun. 

The  intervals  between  these  visits  she  spent 
mainly  with  Anne,  rejoicing  with  her  in  her 
happier  moods,  encouraging,  chiding,  sympa- 
thizing when  the  waves  of  despair  rolled  high. 
Muriel  alone  knew  to  the  full  the  heart  of  this 

19  289 


290  The  Peacock  Feather 

woman  friend  of  hers,  saw  the  proud  spirit  a 
captive  between  the  hands  of  Love,  realized  what 
the  captivity  meant  to  her. 

As  for  our  fifth  character,  Millicent  Sheldon, 
a  pretty  truthful  rumour  of  Tommy's  expedition 
having  reached  her,  her  feelings  were  at  first  dis- 
tinctly mixed,  though  it  is  certain  that  presently 
she  found  a  method  of  adjusting  them  to  her  own 
satisfaction.  After  all,  it  was  unquestionably  the 
hand  of  Providence  which  had  removed  the  some- 
what impecunious  Peter  from  her  life  and  given 
her  in  exchange  the  solid  Theobald  Horatio,  with 
his  equally  solid  income  acquired  from  the  patent 
of  the  little  brushes  which,  being  fixed  behind  carts, 
kept  the  London  streets  in  a  cleanly  condition. 
It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  she  dwelt  upon  these 
brushes;  those  articles  had  long  ago  been  firmly 
obliterated  from  her  mind.  It  was  in  the  solid 
income  alone  that  she  saw  the  hand  of  Providence 
and  realized  that  all  had  undoubtedly  been  for  the 
best.  Had  Peter's  innocence  been  apparent  from 
the  outset,  there  would  have  been  no  excuse  for 
the  letter  she  had  penned  him  at  the  time  of  his 
release  from  jail.  Of  a  former  letter,  written  on 
the  first  hearing  of  his  accusation  and  conviction, 


Found  291 

she  did  not  care  to  think.  If  she  thought  of  it 
at  all  at  this  juncture  it  was  to  tell  herself  the 
letter  had  been  prompted  by  an  impulse  of  pity, 
the  folly  of  which  was  shown  her  later  by  calm 
reason.  That  reason  had  been  aided  by  the 
advent  of  Theobald  Horatio  Sheldon  on  her 
horizon,  she  naturally  did  not  care  to  allow.  It 
was,  however,  her  inadvertent  mention  of  this 
first  letter  and  the  subsequent  events  to  Anne 
which  had  caused  her  to  break  a  second  time 
in  Anne's  eyes. 

But  why  dwell  on  her  further?  Let  her  re- 
main satisfied,  as  she  protests  she  is,  in  the  posses- 
sion of  her  Theobald,  her  little  Theobalda,  and  her 
Theobald's  solid  income.  Her  influence  on  these 
pages  has  ceased ;  our  acquaintance  with  her  may 
well  cease  also. 

Tommy's  expedition  was  certainly  not  all  joy. 
The  month  of  January  is  hardly  one  to  be  willingly 
chosen  for  a  motor  tour  through  England,  and  the 
weather  was  distinctly  unkind. 

To  attempt  to  recount  his  adventures  would 
be  to  fill  a  volume  with  a  description  of  bad  roads, 
hailstorms,  punctures,  and  repeated  disappoint- 
ments. Nevertheless  he  eventually  got  on  the 


292  The  Peacock  Feather 

track  of  that  peacock  feather,  and  followed  it  up  as 
surely  as  a  bloodhound  on  the  scent  of  his  prey, 
though  more  than  once  he  had  to  return  on  his 
own  trail. 

How  Tommy  kept  on  the  scent  at  all  was  a 
marvel.  It  was  by  sheer  perseverance,  by  follow- 
ing up  every  smallest  clue,  by  letting  no  possible 
chance  go  untried.  He  was  indefatigable,  un- 
doubting,  and  his  chauffeur,  hearing  the  story 
from  Tommy's  enthusiastic  lips,  warmed  to  the 
work,  and  played  his  part  with  a  zest  equal  only 
to  Tommy's  own. 

It  was  the  third  week  of  the  search  that  they 
entered  Congleton,  which  was,  as  we  know,  to 
cry  "Hot!"  as  the  children  cry  it  in  the  game  of 
hunt  the  thimble.  But  Tommy  did  not  know 
it;  and  here,  in  spite  of  all  inquiries,  the  clue 
appeared  lost,  vanished. 

The  wind  was  blowing,  a  deluge  half  of  rain, 
half  of  sleet,  descending.  It  being  then  seven 
o'clock  or  thereabouts,  they  decided  after  some 
parley  to  drive  to  a  hotel,  put  up  for  the  night, 
and  renew  the  search  in  the  morning.  Some 
slight  disarrangement  in  the  internal  organs  of 
the  car  further  decided  them  in  the  plan,  though 


Found  293 

the  chauffeur  averred  that  ten  o'clock  the  follow- 
ing morning  should  see  them  again  en  route. 
Slightly  depressed,  however,  Tommy  retired  to 
bed. 

He  was  up  betimes.  In  the  night  the  weather 
had  changed,  and  snow  some  inches  deep  lay 
upon  the  ground.  Before  daylight  he  was  down- 
stairs and  in  the  street.  There  he  met  a  sleepy 
milk-boy  delivering  milk.  Tommy  entered  into 
casual  conversation  with  him,  questioning  care- 
lessly, unconcernedly,  as  his  method  was.  And 
then  suddenly  the  clue  was  once  more  in  his  hand. 

Of  course  the  boy  had  seen  him — a  man  with 
a  peacock  feather  in  his  hat  and  a  dog  at  his  heels — 
a  queer  dog,  a  bit  of  a  mongrel,  so  the  youngster 
announced.  Now  a  dog  of  no  kind  had  been  in 
the  category,  but  the  peacock  feather  was  assuredly 
unmistakable.  Where,  then,  had  the  boy  seen 
him?  The  previous  evening,  it  appeared,  walking 
towards  the  Cloud. 

Tommy  consulted  his  watch.  It  was  now, 
so  he  discovered,  about  a  quarter  after  seven. 
The  car  by  arrangement  did  not  make  its  appear- 
ance till  ten.  Tommy  demurred  within  his  soul, 
cogitated  as  to  possibilities.  Then  with  the 


294  The  Peacock  Feather 

thought  of  further  clues  in  his  mind  he  started 
off  a-foot  towards  the  mountain.  Presently  the 
town  lay  well  behind  him,  a  wide  road  before 
him. 

The  crisp  frosty  air  was  exhilarating,  the 
chance  of  success  spurred  him  on.  He  passed 
a  few  houses.  At  the  door  of  one  a  woman  was 
emptying  a  pail  of  dirty  water.  Tommy  stopped 
a  moment  to  inquire.  Luck,  good  fortune,  was 
in  his  favour.  A  man  such  as  he  had  described 
had  passed  up  the  road  the  previous  evening,  so  the 
woman  confidently  averred.  Hope  beat  high  in 
Tommy's  heart.  Never  before  had  he  been  so 
close  on  the  track.  It  had  been  always  three  or 
four  days  old  at  the  least. 

Now  the  road  became  desolate  of  houses,  a 
smooth  expanse  of  unbroken  snow  lying  between 
stone  walls.  After  a  while  the  road  turned  a  bit 
to  the  left,  and  here  there  was  a  largish  house — 
a  farm-house,  he  judged — lying  among  trees. 
He  passed  it,  the  road  still  bearing  to  the  left. 
Tommy  plodded  on.  The  sun  was  coming  up  in 
the  east,  a  glowing  ball  of  fire. 

And  then  suddenly  he  saw  a  hut  lying  back 
from  the  road  across  a  bit  of  moorland.  In  the 


Found  295 

doorway  a  tall  man  was  standing,  a  peacock  feather 
in  his  hat,  a  white  mongrel  dog  beside  him. 

Tommy's  heart  gave  a  sudden  exultant  leap. 
He  turned  sharply  towards  the  hut. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE  RETURN 

"How  on  earth  did  you  find  me?"  demanded 
Peter,  as  the  two  descended  the  Cloud  together, 
Democritus  following  in  the  rear. 

"By  the  guidance  of  Providence,"  announced 
Tommy.  "It's  been  the  oddest  search  imagin- 
able, and  if  it  hadn't  been  for  that  blessed  peacock 
feather  I'll  dare  swear  it  had  been  fruitless.  It 
was  a  kind  of  landmark,  the  one  characteristic 
by  which  you  had  been  noticed. " 

Peter  laughed.  He  was  at  the  moment  extra- 
ordinarily, exuberantly  happy.  So  can  fate  play 
shuttlecock  with  our  lives. 

At  the  hut  door  Tommy  had  given  him  the 
barest  outline  of  the  story,  sufficient  only  to 
persuade  Peter  that  he  was  indeed  justified  in 
accompanying  the  famished  Tommy  down  the 
mountain-side.  Now  he  elaborated  those  details, 

entered  fully  into  the  most  miraculous  history 

296 


The  Return  297 

of  the  last  three  weeks.  And  the  story  of  Hugh's 
confession  filled  Peter  with  a  curious  exulta- 
tion. He  saw,  as  Father  O'Sullivan  had  seen, 
the  fine  way,  the  grand  way,  in  which  the  past 
had  been  blotted  out  and  his  friend  given  back  to 
him  in  spirit. 

Tommy  strode  down  the  mountain  joyous  of 
heart,  his  honest  freckled  face  fairly  shining  with 
pleasure.  His  whole  further  programme  was 
already  arranged — the  wires  to  be  sent,  the  break- 
fast to  be  eaten,  the  train  to  be  caught  that  was 
to  convey  them  swiftly  back  to  town.  The  car 
and  chauffeur  could  follow  at  their  leisure. 

Here,  however,  Peter  demurred.  It  was  all 
very  well  to  tramp  the  road  in  this  ridiculous 
garb,  but  return  to  civilisation  attired  as  a  mounte- 
bank— never!  There  were  some  things  at  which 
Peter  drew  the  line,  and  he  drew  one  here,  and 
firmly.  Tommy  was  prepared  for  him;  he  met 
and  overruled  each  and  every  objection.  Had 
Peter  no  other  garments  in  that  bundle  he  was 
carrying?  What!  only  a  dress  suit?  Tommy 
opened  eyes  of  wonder.  What  on  earth  was  the 
use  of  a  dress  suit  to  a  wayfarer?  Oh,  of  course, 
it  was  Peter's  own  business  if  he  liked  to  carry  one 


298  The  Peacock  Feather 

around  the  country  in  a  bundle  on  his  back  for  the 
mere  pleasure  of  boasting  to  his  soul  that  he 
possessed  one.  No,  of  course  he  couldn't  wear  it 
up  to  town.  Tommy  didn't  propose  that  he 
should.  But  he — Tommy — had  another  suit  at 
the  hotel.  Peter  was  much  of  his  build;  he'd 
take  him  to  his  room  to  change.  During  the 
process  he'd  dispatch  telegrams.  Then,  Tommy 
presumed,  he'd  be  allowed  to  have  his  breakfast, 
after  which  the  train.  He  was  obdurate  on  that 
point.  Yes,  Peter  could  have  a  bath  if  he  liked — 
fifty  baths,  as  long  as  he  agreed  to  take  the  train 
at  noon. 

Thus  planning,  arranging,  the  hotel  was  reached. 
Tommy  escorted  Peter  to  his  room,  indicated  a 
change  of  raiment  and  the  bathroom  opposite, 
then,  bursting  with  excitement,  proceeded  to  find 
the  chauffeur  and  dispatch  telegrams.  Within 
ten  minutes — such  was  his  celerity  of  action — he 
was  in  the  dining-room,  had  ordered  a  substantial 
breakfast,  and  was  waiting  with  what  patience  he 
might  for  the  appearance  of  Peter. 

Peter,  in  the  bathroom,  was  luxuriating  in  a 
sea  of  gloriously  hot  water,  while  Democritus 
kept  guard  without.  Occasionally  a  wet  black 


The  Return  299 

nose  was  lowered  to  the  crack  beneath  the  door 
to  sniff  and  wonder  perplexedly  at  this  new  freak 
on  the  part  of  his  master. 

"It  is  certain,"  remarked  Peter,  full  length 
in  the  bath,  and  addressing  himself  to  the  ceiling, 
"that  if  I'd  once  indulged  in  the  luxury  of  a  good 
hot  soapy  bath  in  a  private  bathroom  after 
leaving  the  jail,  wild  horses  would  never  have 
dragged  me  to  the  roads.  I'd  forgotten — com- 
pletely forgotten — the  joy  of  it!" 

But  at  last,  with  a  mental  picture  of  the 
famished  Tommy  before  his  mind,  he  reluc- 
tantly proceeded  to  dry  himself  and  don  decent 
habiliments. 

Tommy  greeted  the  entrance  of  Peter  and 
Democritus  with  fervent  enthusiasm,  and  without 
more  ado  they  proceeded  to  make  good  headway 
with  the  substantial,  steaming  breakfast  which 
forthwith  made  its  appearance. 

"Heavens!"  cried  Peter  presently,  pausing 
in  the  consuming  of  eggs  and  bacon,  toast,  mar- 
malade, and  coffee,  "was  there  ever  such  a 
breakfast  before?  And  have  I  once  tendered 
you  my  thanks  for  coming  in  pursuit  of  me? 
The  whole  miraculous  business,  the  entire  blessed 


300  The  Peacock  Feather 

kaboodle,  seems  to  have  upset  my  mental  equi- 
librium and  clouded  my  manners." 

"Bless  the  man!"  cried  Tommy,  "don't  I 
understand?" 

Some  couple  of  hours  later  the  two,  with 
Democritus,  were  in  the  train,  sitting  in  a  first- 
class  carriage,  which  Tommy  had  bribed  the 
guard  to  reserve  to  their  sole  use.  Neither  man 
desired  the  company  of  strangers  at  the  moment. 
Under  all  their  chaff  and  light-heartedness  there 
was  a  sense  of  bigness,  a  feeling  of  something 
great  accomplished. 

Peter  gazed  through  the  carriage  window  at 
the  snow-covered  landscape,  his  mind  a  whirl 
of  varied  emotions.  It  is  useless  to  attempt  to 
say  which  was  uppermost.  Kaleidoscopic  they 
revolved  in  his  brain,  a  jumble  of  pleasure,  relief, 
half-forgotten  fatigue,  expectation,  though  now 
through  them  all  ran  a  thought  of  regret,  of 
sadness — the  thought  of  Anne. 

Is  ever  the  perfection  of  joy  allowed  to  us 
mortals?  It  would  appear  not,  mused  Peter. 
Here  was  everything  to  his  hand  that  his  soul 
could  desire,  save  the  one  thing  after  which  it 
really  hankered;  and  with  that  to  his  debit,  the 


The  Return  301 

balance — in  spite  of  its  appearance — was  dis- 
tinctly inadequate. 

Tommy,  gazing  at  him  furtively  from  behind 
the  morning  paper,  marvelled  at  the  sudden 
melancholy  of  the  man.  Cogitating  in  his  mind 
for  the  reason,  and  having  heard  from  Muriel 
of  Peter's  previous  engagement,  he  thought  to 
have  found  it.  If  only,  so  meditated  Tommy — 
no  lover  of  Millicent — he  could  realize  the  escape 
he  had  had. 

And  so  the  train  bore  them  onward,  out  of  the 
snow-covered  land,  past  bare  brown  fields  and 
skeleton  trees,  past  smoky  towns  and  small 
villages  lying  in  pale  sunlight,  on  to  the  suburbs 
past  whose  platforms  the  train  roared  and  rushed, 
on  and  ever  onward,  till  London  itself  was  reached. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

DEMOCRITUS  ARRIVES  TO  STAY 

GENERAL  GARDEN  in  his  smoking-room  was 
listening,  waiting.  Fifty  times  already  in  the 
last  half -hour  he  had  looked  over  the  curtain  that 
veiled  the  lower  half  of  the  window.  Fifty  times 
he  had  looked  at  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece 
and  compared  it  with  his  watch. 

An  orange  envelope  lay  on  the  table  beside 
him,  and  with  it  a  strip  of  pink  paper.  He  knew 
the  words  thereon  verbatim;  certainly  they  were 
few  in  number: 

"Found.  Arrive  Euston  four  o'clock  to-day. 
— LANCING.  " 

On  the  receipt  of  this  brief  missive  General 
Garden's  heart  had  thumped  violently.  He  had 
found  voice  to  pass  the  good  news  on  to  the  devoted 
Goring,  but  it  was  well  on  half  an  hour  before 
voice  and  heart  were  under  his  normal  control. 

Muriel  had  descended  on  him  radiant,  trium- 
302 


Democritus  Arrives  to  Stay       303 

phant,  a-bubble  with  joy  and  glee,  showering  her 
congratulations. 

"Come  to  Mrs.  Cresswell's  dance  to-morrow 
night,"  she  implored,  "and  bring  him  with  you. 
I  want  to  shake  hands  with  Don  Quixote.  I 
have  never  before  met  him  in  the  flesh."  But 
behind  this  desire,  and  stronger  than  it,  was  the 
knowledge  that  Anne  would  be  there,  and,  woman- 
like, she  longed  for  an  immediate  meeting  of  the 
two. 

"We'll  see,"  promised  General  Garden,  smiling 
indulgently  as  at  a  pleading  child.  In  his  heart 
he  longed  to  parade  London  with  his  son  and  let 
the  whole  world  be  witness  to  his  return,  to  their 
reunion. 

Again  he  glanced  at  the  clock.  Any  moment 
now!  He  tried  to  quell  the  tumult  of  expecta- 
tion within  him. 

Dare  one  penetrate  a  little  way  into  the  mind 
of  the  reserved  old  man,  guess  at  the  tide  of 
memory  he  had  at  last  allowed  to  flow  back  to  his 
heart?  For  years  he  had  kept  it  relentlessly  at 
its  ebb,  a  long  barren  shore  between  him  and  its 
waters.  He  had  feared  to  be  submerged  in  its 
flood;  he  had  feared  that,  should  it  approach  him, 


304  The  Peacock  Feather 

it  would  come  swiftly,  remorselessly,  drowning 
him  in  its  depths,  choking  the  life  out  of  him  with 
a  deadly,  icy  cold.  Now,  and  now  only,  he 
realized  the  sweetness  of  its  waters,  realized  that 
their  approach  would  be  not  to  submerge  but  to 
lift  him  on  buoyant  waves — waves  warm,  exuber- 
ant, joyous.  Oh,  it  might  come  now,  come  in  all 
its  strength,  come  bearing  life  in  its  flow!  No 
longer  a  barren,  desolate  shore  between  him  and 
those  waters.  Throughout  the  day  the  wavelets 
had  lapped  ever  softly,  gently  nearer.  Now  calmly, 
joyously,  they  lifted  him  on  their  surface. 

There  was  the  old  house  down  in  the  country, 
with  the  pear-tree  whose  branches  reached  the 
window  of  that  octagon-room.  It  should  be 
restored,  re-inhabited.  There  was  the  river  that 
ran  below  its  grounds,  wherein  speckled  trout  and 
silver  salmon  abounded.  Many  were  the  fish 
he  had  caught  there,  many  the  fish  Peter  had 
caught.  What  was  to  prevent  them  from  catch- 
ing more?  Already  in  thought  the  speckled  trout 
lay  gasping  on  the  bank,  the  silver  salmon  were 
giving  play  in  the  long  reaches  of  water  between 
the  meadows.  There  was  the  shooting,  too — the 
pheasants,  the  partridges,  the  snipe  in  the  swampy 


Democritus  Arrives  to  Stay       305 

ground  beyond  the  old  mill,  the  wild  duck  where 
some  seven  miles  distant  the  arm  of  the  sea  ran  up 
to  meet  the  river.  The  old  days  again !  Memory 
carried  him  on  her  tide  towards  the  future. 

And  then  into  the  midst  of  his  thoughts  came 
a  sound  that  brought  his  old  heart  fluttering  to 
his  throat — the  sound  of  the  front-door  bell. 

He  held  on  to  the  arms  of  his  chair,  his  eyes 
upon  the  door.  It  opened. 

"Mr.  Peter!"  Goring's  voice  was  on  a  note 
of  exultation. 

And  into  the  room  came  a  tall,  lean  man,  a 
mongrel  dog  at  his  heels. 

"Hullo,  father!" 

"Well,  my  boy!" 

There  was  a  grip  of  hands.  Then  the  old 
man  was  sitting  again  by  the  fire,  Peter  opposite 
to  him.  There  was  a  little  silence.  Democritus, 
sniffing  at  the  black,  hairy  hearthrug,  was  com- 
pletely engrossed  with  his  own  occupation.  In 
the  silence  the  two  men  watched  him. 

Presently  he  curled  down  with  a  thump.  A  quiv- 
ering sigh  of  satisfaction  passed  through  his  body. 

"It  is  evident,"  said  Peter  with  a  little  laugh, 
"that  Democritus  has  come  to  stay." 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

PER  ASPERA  AD  ASTRA 

''AND  so,"  quoth  Peter,  "when  the  two  met 
again,  he  had  a  story  to  tell  her." 

"Oh!"  queried  Anne,  toying  with  her  fan,  the 
flimsy  thing  of  mother-of-pearl  and  cobwebby 
old  lace.  "A  long  story?" 

"That,"  ventured  Peter  with  temerity,  "de- 
pended largely — I  might  say  altogether — on  his 
listener. " 

They  were  sitting,  these  two,  in  a  wide  window- 
seat  at  the  end  of  a  passage.  They  had  the  full 
length  of  it  before  them.  It  was  a  post  of  vantage. 
With  what  generalship  Peter  had  marked  it  out, 
with  what  fine  diplomacy  he  had  found  Lady  Anne 
and  escorted  her  hither,  is  no  doubt  better  im- 
agined than  recorded.  It  suffices  to  chronicle 
that  here  they  were,  in  an  alcove  of  soft  draperies 
and  shaded  lights,  listening — if  they  chose — to  the 

306 


Per  Aspera  ad  Astra  307 

strains  of  music,  watching — if  they  chose — the 
brilliant  kaleidoscopic  effect  of  colour  through 
the  open  door  of  the  great  ballroom. 

"  My  story, "  continued  Peter,  "  is  of  a  Wanderer, 
one  whom  Fate  in  one  of  her  freakish  moods  had 
wedded  to  the  roads,  the  highways  and  hedges,  the 
fields  and  woods. " 

"Had  he,"  queried  Anne,  "nothing  to  sol- 
ace him  in  his  wanderings — no  thoughts,  no 
memories?" 

"None,"  said  Peter  steadily.  "Once  long 
ago  Cupid  had  touched  him  with  his  wing — the 
merest  flick  of  a  feather.  The  man — poor  fool ! — 
fancied  himself  wounded,  thought  to  bear  a  scar. 
Later,  when  he  looked  for  it,  he  found  there  was 
none.  It  had  been  the  most  entire  illusion  on  his 
part.  And  so  he  wandered  the  roads,  regretting 
perhaps  that  he  was  scathless.  But  that  is  beside 
the  mark."  He  paused,  glancing  at  the  hands 
which  held  the  flimsy  cobwebby  fan. 

"One  day,"  continued  Peter,  "into  his  lonely 
wanderings  came  a  letter,  a  mere  scrap  of  bluish 
paper  with  tracings  thereon  of  black  ink.  A 
flimsy  fragile  thing  you  might  say,  but  to  him  it 
meant — well,  everything.  I  fancy  he  had  never 


3o8  The  Peacock  Feather 

realized  his  entire  loneliness  till  that  delicate 
herald  of  joy  appeared.  And — here  was  the 
wonder  of  it — it  was  written  by  a  woman. " 

"Oh!"  said  Lady  Anne,  the  little  pulses  flutter- 
ing in  her  throat. 

"It  was,"  went  on  Peter,  "a  gracious  letter, 
a  charming  letter,  written  by  one  who  had  guessed 
at  his  loneliness  of  spirit,  and  thought  to  cheer 
that  loneliness,  to  heal  the  wound  she  fancied  him 
to  bear.  To  him  it  came  as  a  draught  of  water  to 
one  in  a  waterless  desert.  It  brought  him  help, 
refreshment.  He  began  to  dream  a  dream  of  the 
writer,  to  imagine  her  near  him.  He  spent  hours 
in  the  company  of  his  Dream  Lady.  He  was  no 
longer  lonely,  no  longer  desolate.  In  spirit — in 
fancy,  if  you  will — she  was  ever  with  him.  Oh, 
he  knew  well  enough  that  he  could  never  meet  her 
in  the  flesh,  that  was  part  of  the  compact.  But 
disembodied  though  she  was,  she  meant  more  to 
him  than  all  the  material  friendships  in  creation. " 
Again  he  stopped,  his  heart  was  beating  fast. 

"And  then?"  questioned  Lady  Anne. 

He  drew  a  deep  breath.  "And  then  Fate 
played  a  trick — a  curious,  almost  incredible  trick, 
Fate  threw  the  woman  in  his  path.  Their  meet- 


Per  Aspera  ad  Astra  309 

ing  was  strange,  picturesque — I  might  almost 
call  it  unique.  At  the  moment  reason  did  not 
tell  him  the  woman  was  the  writer  of  the  letters, 
but  his  soul,  I  believe,  guessed.  And  presently 
he  knew  without  a  doubt  his  soul  was  right." 

"Ah!"  breathed  Lady  Anne.  "He  knew  the 
writer  of  the  letters  to  him,  but  she  did  not  know 
who  answered  them." 

"She  did  not,"  echoed  Peter. 

There  was  a  little  pause. 

"Then,"  she  asked,  her  eyes  still  upon  her 
fan,  "I  suppose  he  told  her  what  he  knew?" 

"No,"  said  Peter  in  a  low  voice,  "he  did  not. 
There  is  no  excuse  for  him.  I  myself  make  none. 
But — he  feared  to  lose  her  letters.  There's  the 
whole  matter  in  a  nutshell.  He  did  not  tell  her, 
and  he  continued  to  write." 

"Oh!"  said  Lady  Anne.  Again  there  was  a 
pause. 

"Of  course,"  continued  Peter,  "it  was  in- 
excusable of  him.  But  Fate  had  his  punishment 
in  store. " 

"Yes?"  she  queried. 

"Fate  disclosed  his  trickery  to  the  woman. 
He  read  his  punishment  in  the  contempt  in  her 


310  The  Peacock  Feather 

eyes.  He  deserved  it,  every  bit  of  it.  But  it 
hurt  none  the  less." 

"And — and  then  what  happened?"  she  asked, 
trembling. 

"He  went  away,"  said  Peter.  "First  he  made 
a  sacrifice — a  small  funeral  pyre  on  which  he 
burnt  her  letters,  and  I  fancy  his  heart." 

"Did  he  do  nothing  else?"  she  demanded. 

"Oh,  yes,"  confessed  Peter.  "He  wrote  to 
her.  It  was  the  least  he  could  do.  He  prayed 
her  forgiveness." 

"And — ?"  she  queried. 

Again  Peter  drew  a  deep  breath.  "After 
that  there  were  months  of  a  greater  loneliness. 
I  fancy  he  tried  to  be  brave,  to  be  worthy  of  her 
memory.  She  was,  you  see,  his  star. " 

"Did — did  he  not  condemn  her  for  her  harsh- 
ness?" asked  Lady  Anne. 

"Never,"  cried  Peter  hotly.  "She  was  to  him 
his  goddess,  his  divinity. "  He  stopped. 

" Is  that  all?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  said  Peter.  "Fate  had  another  sur- 
prise in  store.  She  brought  him  from  his  loneli- 
ness, set  him  again  in  the  midst  of  his  fellow- 
men.  But  that  was  not  all — it  was  the  least.  He 


Per  Aspera  ad  Astra  311 

found" — Peter's  heart  beat  to  suffocation — "a 
letter — one  that  should  have  reached  him  long 
ago  but  for  his  own  folly.  From  it  he  dared  to 
believe,  to  hope,  that  his  Lady  had  condoned  his 
offence,  had  forgiven. " 

Lady  Anne  did  not  reply.    Peter  looked  at  her. 

"Had  she  forgiven?"  he  pleaded. 

For  a  second — the  merest  fraction  of  a  second 
— she  raised  her  eyes  to  his. 

"I — I  think  so,"  she  said.  And  a  tiny  ador- 
able smile  curved  her  mouth.  "Is  that  all  the 
story?"  she  questioned  in  a  low  voice  after  a  little 
silence. 

"Oh  no,"  said  Peter. 

"No?"  she  asked,  surprised.  "I  fancied  it  was 
the  end." 

"  It  is, "  said  Peter  boldly,  "  only  the  beginning.'* 

"Oh!"  she  asked  with  delicately  raised  eye- 
brows; "and — and  is  the  rest  of  the  story  long?" 

"It  is,"  said  Peter,  "as  long  as  a  lifetime,  and 
longer.  It  stretches  away  into  Eternity.  It  is  a 
story  of  his  love  for  his  Lady,  his  Queen.  She  is 
immeasurably  more  to  him  than  all  in  earth  and 
heaven.  With  every  fibre  of  his  being,  with  his 
body,  his  soul,  his  spirit,  he  loves,  worships,  and 


312  The  Peacock  Feather 

adores.  It  is  a  story  that  will  take  a  lifetime  in  the 
telling.  Dare  he  tell  it?  Is  she,  think  you,  willing 
to  listen?" 

Lady  Anne  again  raised  her  eyes  to  his. 

"You're  sure,"  she  queried,  "that  he  wants 
her  to  listen?" 

"Absolutely  sure,"  said  Peter,  his  blue  eyes 
holding  hers. 

"Then,"  breathed  Lady  Anne  softly,  "tell  her." 


THE  END 


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